The People He Sees
by EstelRaca
Summary: As a doctor, he sees them at their most vulnerable and their most open. A series of interconnected one-shots featuring McCoy as head medical officer for the Enterprise. Some chapters will contain medical descriptions of injuries.
1. Puri

**Disclaimer:** I have loved them all my life, and they are not mine.

**Warning:** This chapter contains medical descriptions of extensive injuries. I tried not to be gratuitously graphic, but I don't want to accidentally upset anyone.

_The People He Sees_

_Chapter 1: Puri_

The first Starfleet officer he treats is the one he replaces.

It's not supposed to be like this. They're on a simple mission of mercy, a routine rescue cruise to a highly civilized planet. That's what they're prepped for. They have everything they could possibly need short of a touch-healer to deal with crushing, pressure wounds, damaged limbs, and simple mental distress.

And they have plenty of those troubles, all right. But he's also got burns, electrical burns, oxygen deprivation, smoke inhalation, partial decompression, and mental snappage. Which isn't the proper word, but it's a damn better fit than any of the technical bologna he's going to be writing in charts later. If there is a later.

They're just _cadets_, damn it. He's only been through three years of Academy. There are supposed to be officers here, telling them what to do, ensuring everything stays organized. Instead he's the one shouting orders and keeping things running as best as he can.

It's been five years since his last stint in the ER. His wife hated it whenever he took a shift, said it made him morose and melancholic and impossible to talk to. He was always good at it, though. Even when he hated it, he was good at the job. And at least here, with these kids dying under his hands, he can say it's not from their own stupidity.

His voice carries well, which is pretty much the only prerequisite to being a good ER doctor. It cuts through the cries and moans and screams of the broken and the damaged with ease, and the crew of blue-shirted medical personnel respond to it like it was the voice of God. It allows him to direct them, to keep a steady triage unit working, to organize and reorganize the bedding and priorities based on who's dying fastest and who he can actually save.

"It's Dr. Puri! Dr. Puri!"

The young man's cry brings a short, relieved pause to the scurrying medical teams, though it does nothing to quiet their patients.

McCoy can feel the relief snap, fatigue and despair taking its place as people actually manage to localize the shouting man and the hideous burden he's carrying.

The boys on either end of the stretcher can't be more than twenty-four, eyes wide and round in their heads as they stare around blankly. Their uniforms are so drenched in blood it takes him a moment to decide that they actually do belong to the medical staff.

"Everyone keep working! We've got more incoming wounded, less open beds with every minute, and I'm sure the last thing Dr. Puri wants is for us to be sitting around like little lost puggles when he comes around. Move it!"

The barked command has the desired effect, stirring everyone once more into motion. Trotting over to the boys with the stretcher, he looks down at his mentor—

And knows that Dr. Puri isn't going to be worrying about their work ever again. Deep puncture wounds riddle the man's form. Half of his body is covered in third degree full-thickness burns. Yellow fluid coats the stretcher, soaks what remains of his uniform. Pink foam coats his lower face, bloody and thick. His right eye is oddly malformed, exopthalmic like a hamster's, pupil wide, almost obscuring the pale blue iris. His left eye is simply missing.

Burns and partial decompression. Space sucking at him, drawing for him, dragging him who knows how far before the emergency response barrier contained the vacuum. The oxygen rushing by fanning the flames on his uniform higher before the lack of air finally drowned the fire. Lungs struggling to function in the absence or near-absence of atmosphere, collapsing, churning into a bloody foam to choke a man alive—

He swallows hard. He can't think about it. He can't process it now. Later, when it's all done, he can sit down and shake and drink and maybe even cry, because it's the death that perhaps scares him the most. Maybe Jim will even sit with him and listen, and not despise him for needing that time to fall apart.

For now he's the force that's holding the medical bay together. They're a group of babies far out of their league, scared and overwhelmed by their trial by fire. The two techs holding Puri's stretcher are still staring at him, and he can't tell from their blank faces how many seconds have passed. Hopefully not many, because every second he wastes is another life or two lost, and that's not an idea he can stand.

There's no way Puri is alive, but he does a quick scan and then checks for a femoral and jugular pulse anyway. Never abandon good medicine in an emergency. Be fast, be efficient, but be sure.

"Set the stretcher with the other bodies. Then go see if you can help anyone else get here, all right?" He claps the closest boy on the shoulder, resisting the urge to wince at the wet sucking sound it makes or the sticky ooze of blood that seeps out onto his hand.

The two kids straighten and nod. Their eyes are still large, their minds still largely missing, unable to face the nightmare they've been dropped into without warning. They follow his instructions, though.

They _all_ follow his instructions, which is why it's ridiculous when Spock calls down to tell him that he's inherited Puri's job. Of course he's inherited it. Nobody else would _want_ it, and certainly none of the rest of them are ready for it. They're still cadets, for God's sake, still kids, and nobody told them that _this_ was what space was really like. Nobody sat them down and made them imagine it—the terror of dying in vacuum; the horror of bleeding and bleeding and no one around to pull you to sick bay; the grating, unbearable torture of sound that surrounds a medical bay in the midst of an emergency. They can't sedate all the screamers because they don't have enough people to monitor even the ones they're putting under for treatment, and he'll be damned if he'll lose someone due to poor anesthetic maintenance.

He can live with the sound. He can live with the horrors flowing by under his hand. He's seen a lot of them before, in his mind's eye, his cursed imagination having made him intimately familiar with every new way of dying they taught him. So he can keep working, and as long as he keeps working, they keep following him.

And for now, striving to pull order and life out of chaos and death, that's all he needs.


	2. Scotty

**Disclaimer:** I have loved them all my life, and they are not mine.

**Warning:** This chapter contains medical descriptions of injuries, though not as severe as Chapter 1. I'm trying for no gratuitous gore, but be prepared.

_The People He Sees_

_Two: Scotty_

The second officer he treats isn't Jim, which surprises him a bit. Jim's ability to get himself into trouble is second only to his ability to get himself out again. Given the number of times he's surreptitiously helped patch the rebellious cadet back together again, McCoy had expected to see him in the medical bay within a week of their cruise starting. Three weeks is quite possibly a record for him.

Then again, Jim's stuck on the bridge, and that's designed to be the second safest place on the ship in a firefight. So even if he is to blame for this—which he probably isn't, but the bitterness brought on by a new flood of casualties makes reasoning difficult—even if Jim's to blame, he's unlikely to wind up down in sickbay.

It's the red-shirts, the engineers and security details and communications gurus who make up the largest part of the flood. Though there are plenty of unlucky people in all colors, the poor saps in technical support are the ones rushing into places other people are rushing out of. They're the ones trying to contain fires, directing evacuations, sticking their hands in shorted-out bits of mechanical goo-gah, crawling through giant metal machines and generally trying to make sure the ship stays space-worthy for everyone else.

Which means it really shouldn't be much of a surprise that he ends up seeing their newly-minted chief engineer. Thankfully it's towards the end of the rush. Most of his patients are stabilized, and he's got good people working on the ones who aren't, gaining him a few free minutes to see to the last trickle of wounded.

He should know the man's name. They've been introduced, but Jim's idea of introductions aren't always conducive to memory, and he doesn't have time to dredge around in his mind for the moniker. "Can I help you, engineer?"

The man turns toward him with a start. His red tunic is lavishly coated with soot and grime, but he smiles hesitantly anyway. "Seem to have run into a slight bit o' trouble, doc."

The man's walking and talking, which makes him a low-priority patient, but McCoy forces himself to calm down and do a more thorough exam. They're not rushing now. Nobody's going to die if he focuses his attention for a few minutes on a young man who's also been promoted far faster than he should be. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Well… I'm thinkin' maybe you should see for yourself." The man has an accent, a soft brogue that may be Scottish. McCoy's never been terribly good at accents.

Just like he's never been terribly good at holding his temper. "What the hell is this?"

The engineer looks down at the wad of cotton and clotted blood that he's holding out, chagrin clouding his smile. "My hand. I hope. Leastways it _was_."

"Good God, man, what'd you do?" McCoy isn't even sure where to start unwrapping the "bandage", if the filthy rag can even be called that. Tugging gently at what seems to be an end earns a wince of pain from the engineer.

"When the Klingons hit us broadside the first time, we lost a couple of power converters. Blew up rather spectacularly. I dare say this ship does everything spectacularly." The engineer draws in a sharp, ragged breath, his good hand clenching against his thigh as McCoy continues to tug futilely at the mass of fabric. "Anyway, the captain was callin' down for more power, so I decided to crawl into the—"

"I'm a doctor, not an engineer. Unless you want your prognosis and treatment in an incomprehensible mangling of Latin and Greek—"

"Right." The young man stares off into the distance for a moment, his expression perplexed. Apparently it's difficult translating from engineer to normal human. "Well, I suppose you could say I stuck my hand in a bit of engine that wasn't supposed to be moving."

"And it moved?"

"No, sir. I make sure of things like that. I'm not losin' any of these toddlers to stupid mistakes, not on my watch—ah!"

A strip of the bandage comes lose, a fresh trickle of blood trailing down the engineer's arm. McCoy would love to hit him with a hypo of _something_, at least pain medication if not an anticoagulant, but it's too risky when he can't tell what condition the man's appendage is in. "So what happened then?"

"I hadn't counted on the cap'n ordering the whole _ship_ t' move. Cut my hand up pretty bad."

"You said this was when we were first hit? That was…" It takes Bone's a moment to find his watch, then another moment to determine that it's telling him the real time. "Jesus, that was over two and a half hours ago!"

"I know." The engineer shrugs, carefully not moving the hand that McCoy is still unwrapping.

"You _know_? That's it? Who knows what could have happened in that time! If you'd hit an artery, you could have bled out! There could be nerve damage, and God knows what kind of infection already setting in, or—"

"I couldn't leave." The man's voice is infuriatingly calm, his accent softening the words even more than his tone.

"No one's irreplaceable, man."

"I am. For now. Least when the captain's makin' unreasonable demands. Oh, God, is that—"

Bone. White bone shows through a fresh torrent of blood as the bandage finally comes loose, revealing the extent of the damage. The engineer's face pales and he sways.

"Easy, there. Nurse! We need a table—fine, we need a chair, at least, pronto! Easy, son. What's your name?"

"Scott, sir. Montgomery Scott. Scotty, t' me friends." Scotty's accent is thicker than before, harsher, but his breathing and color stabilize as he sits down and looks away from the injury.

"Well, Scotty, let's see exactly how much damage you've done to yourself."

The worst laceration is jagged and deep, cutting diagonally across the engineer's hand from just below his right index finger to the fleshy pad of his palm. Bone shows through in several spots, and the bleeding is slower than it should be due to minor burns along the length of the injury but still steady.

McCoy sighs in relief. "Looks nasty, but I think I'll be able to patch it up."

The engineer looks over at him, carefully keeping his eyes above the injury and focused on McCoy's face. "Good as new?"

"Depends. If you're just going to go shove it into a bloody damned machine and not come get it looked at for hours—"

"Doc, I _couldn't_ leave." Scotty's eyes are fierce, the hint of joviality that had colored his tone throughout the rest of their conversation missing. "My boys, they don' know what they're doin' yet. Hell, I didn' know what I was doin' half the time, tryin' to figure out how to do what the captain's bellowin' down he needs done. I wasn't gonna leave them, and it wasn' bleedin' that badly. Then."

McCoy looks down at the wound, setting to work with a sterilization pack, already imagining in his mind's eye how to reconnect nerves and ligaments and close the gash without impeding flexibility of the hand too much. It would have been better if he'd seen the injury when it was fresher. The tissue would have been more responsive, the chance of infection would have been less, and he hates again the fact that he's got to _worry_ about infection in space. Damned mutating viruses and damned alien viruses and damn being on a ship that's crewed by children.

"I find it hard to believe that your 'boys' really couldn't function on their own for a few hours."

"They could function for hours, but not when we're in the middle of a rollin' spacefight with things gettin' destroyed every few seconds. Their average age's twenty-two and a half. Most of 'em are somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-four. Survivors of the _Narada_. People who were lucky enough to be sick that day. Kids who've been graduated way faster'n they should've been."

McCoy looks up at the man in shock. Twenty-two? Really? "You've got to have some older people."

"Oh, I do. One's sixty-eight, one's fifty-nine. Hate to follow my orders, the both of them. Doesn' help that they're married and think they were born knowin' everything about engineerin' that there ever was to know."

"Why didn't Starfleet—"

Scotty smiles, somehow making the expression grim. "Because we're short on people. Same as your section. Or do you usually prefer havin' toddlers as your support staff?"

"They're not toddlers. They're good—" He stops himself before he says _kids_. Much as he doesn't want to admit it, Scotty's right. His section has a slightly older mean age, but that's just because of the demands of medical school. The _Enterprise_ is working on a skeleton crew of raw cadets graduated way too quickly. Between the _Narada_ and the Klingons, Starfleet lost more people than she could afford to, and she didn't care where she made up the extra bodies. That's the only reason Jim's sitting up on the bridge, safe and sound and somehow managing to annoy the hell out of Klingons when they're supposed to be well away from the neutral zone.

If it came down to it, he _would_ probably try to keep working with an injury like Scotty's. The medical team is still reeling from the loss of too many people, including her proper commander, and the appointment of too many new recruits who aren't quite sure of their places yet isn't helping matters. He's needed. If he does his job right, he won't be indispensable for long, but right now…

He, at least, would have been smart enough not to use a filthy engineer's rag to staunch the bleeding. Maybe he needs to give all senior officers a refresher course in emergency first aid.

"So? What's your diagnosis, doc? Or have I only earned the telepathic version?" The grin's back on Scotty's face, a teasing note to his tone.

Bones sighs, giving a slight smile back. Perhaps against his better judgment, he likes this forthright kid. "You'll make it. I should be able to restore nerve and ligament function. You'll have a longer recuperative period than if you'd come down here immediately, but if you follow doctor's orders you should get full use of the hand back."

"Good." The relief that flows through the man's body is obvious, a sudden loosening of muscles that hadn't even appeared to be tense. "I'd hate t' have t' use my teeth as a replacement hand."

Wrapping a clean, sterile, non-stick pressure bandage around the wound, Bones pats Scotty on the shoulder. "Why don't you just sit here for a minute. I'm going to make rounds again, make sure everyone's stable, and as soon as I'm satisfied with that I'll be back to get you prepped for surgery."

"Sounds good." The engineer stretches out, still avoiding looking at his injured hand. Within a few seconds his eyes are closed, a light snore emanating from his open mouth.

Kids. They have kids leading kids, and Jim asking them to do the impossible for him.

Shaking his head, McCoy works his way carefully around the room, checking on his staff as well as on their patients. Some he dismisses, sending them to their quarters with or without sedatives. Some he compliments. Nobody needs chastising—after the first few times he yelled during the crisis, everyone had been very careful about their work.

By the time he gets back to the engineer, the man already has two visitors. The alien that had followed him from the Arctic wasteland hunkers sadly on the floor, one arm resting on Scotty's leg. The look on its rocky face might be reproach, but McCoy is still learning how to read the thing's expressions and wouldn't be willing to bet money on it. Jim crouches awkwardly on Scotty's other side, trying to reach eye level with the seated man, and both he and the engineer are laughing at something one of them said.

"Jim. Good of you to join us." McCoy looks his friend up and down. There's no obvious sign of injury on him. "I trust you're not hiding something from me."

"No. I'm fine, Bones." There's a note of melancholy in Jim's voice as his eyes flick over the still-active medical bay.

It goes a long way towards erasing the blame McCoy wants to saddle him with—not quite all the way, but a long way. Jim's still a kid himself, and at least he's recognizing what he's done.

"I'm actually here about commendations and awards. As well as training and discharges, if anyone needs those. But I'm hoping to mainly stick with the commendations and awards." He rises from his crouch, slapping Scotty on the back.

Perhaps a little too forcefully, as the engineer winces and reaches up to rub at the spot with his good hand.

Jim doesn't even seem to notice. "Get him patched up, Bones. He's the best damn engineer I've ever heard of. We need him."

"Yes, sir. Though I suppose if he was the worst engineer, I should just let him sit and bleed there."

"That's not what I meant." Kirk hesitates, glancing around. "We'll talk later, Bones. I'll explain what happened. Until then, good work, get some rest, and decide what dress uniform you want to wear when you get your medal."

"What medal? For what? Jim, Starfleet isn't going to like it if you—"

The captain's already gone, cocky grin and fiery will scampering off with a wave. Sick bay seems somehow quieter with him gone, though that's not possibly right.

Scotty looks at the door for a moment, one hand absently patting the rocky head of his companion. "Doc, have you ever wondered—"

"Whatever you're going to try to figure out about Jim, my best suggestion would just be to let it go. Easier on everyone's psyche that way."

"Well, I was goin' to ask if you've ever thought about rewirin' some of these lights for more efficiency and better disaster-proofin', but we can talk about the captain if you want to."

McCoy can't tell from Scotty's grin whether he's joking or serious.

After a moment's hesitation he decides it doesn't matter. He's got surgery to do, a med bay to run, crewmembers to worry about, and Jim to possibly ream out later. For now, he'll just take whatever comfort he can from the engineer's near-constant good humor. Jim really doesn't know how lucky he was to get the crew that he did, but McCoy intends to make sure he figures it out.

He might even invite the engineer to drink with them later. Not for the whole night—not for the late night, when he'll drink and remember everything he's seen today and psychoanalyze himself and Jim and the whole crazy bloody madcap world they've somehow found themselves in. But for the start, when they're celebrating surviving. When Jim's somewhere between mad cheer, unrelieved energy, and bitter regret—for that part, Scotty will fit right in.

(And if, somehow, the engineer ends up staying later… Bones has a gut feeling that he might just fit right in.)


	3. Spock

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine, and still very much loved.

**Warning:** There is some medical description in this, but in my opinion it's less traumatizing than the first two, so if you made it through those you should be all right.

_The People He Sees_

_Part Three: Spock_

The third Starfleet officer he treats is the last one he expected to. Jim's involved in the incident, though, so expectations don't matter all that much.

"Bones!"

Jim's shout is easily recognized, a forceful bellow that could carry over just about anything. In the silence of sick bay during the second day of shore leave, it's more than a bit of overkill.

"_Bones!"_

McCoy sighs and punches the button to send his terminal into sleep mode. He rubs at the back of his neck as he gets up and heads out of his office. Jim's only been planet-side for—six hours? He can't have gotten himself into that much trouble. "So what was it this time? Pretty girl? Or—"

The tableau that greets him as he walks out into sickbay freezes him in his tracks, but only for a split second. Jim and Uhura flank Spock, and it's obvious that they're supporting most of the gangly Vulcan's weight. The three are in street clothes, Jim's outfit outlandish and chest-bearing, Spock's elegant and clean-cut, Uhura's simple but gorgeous. Hectic splashes of green stain all of them, and he has to forcibly remind his brain to process it as blood.

A _lot_ of blood.

"What—how—" Grabbing a scanner as he walks by, he barely manages to keep his eyes on his patient rather than on Jim. "Please don't tell me you managed to get _Spock_ into a bar fight. Really—"

"_I_ didn't do it." Affronted indignation color's the captain's words. "_He_ got _me_ into a bar fight."

"A fact… you shouldn't find… so amusing." The Vulcan's breathing is labored but steady, his voice merely a quieter version of his usual precise tone despite the blood coating his face. "Captain, as I said before… the man… the one that I…"

Spock's voice falters and his face pales, deathly yellow bruises suddenly showing far too clearly.

McCoy doesn't need any other prompting. "Get him on a bed. Nurse!"

He doesn't wait to see if the woman who had been unlucky enough to draw the short stick with him this evening is actually responding to his words before belting out orders. His people know that tone of voice. She'll get done what he needs her to get done.

"I want three monitors set up. Two with standard physiological data for humans and Vulcans, one with Lieutenant Spock's previous medical scans. Prep a kit for surgery, too."

Spock's brows draw together. "Doctor, I assure you…" The first officer draws a deep breath and winces. "My injuries are… not that severe. I—"

"Shut up."

Spock blinks up at him, expression… confounded, at least. It's a small victory.

"Shut up, sit still, and get an exam. You're bleeding, you're shaky on your feet, and I damn sure am not having you try to shrug it off because of—" McCoy realizes belatedly that he doesn't really know why his current patient is trying to be an idiot. "Anything. And you two—why didn't anyone call me from the transporter room? A heads up would have been nice. We could have even, I don't know, gotten a stretcher for the injured man rather than making him walk and leave bloodstains that will have to be treated as technicolor biohazard, thank you very much."

"I'm sorry, Bones." Kirk sounds properly contrite.

Which most likely means he's trying to get away with something. McCoy spares a moment to glare at the man. "What is it you're trying to hide?"

It's Uhura who answers. Her tone is calm, though her expression is anything but, and she holds Spock's left hand tightly in hers. "A punk from the _Intrepid_ broke a chair over the captain's head and back. I think he's bleeding down the back of his shirt."

"Bones, it's not serious, I swear." Jim holds up his hands in surrender. "Please, see to him first."

"Doctor, most of the blood… is from a broken nose." Spock grabs at McCoy's arm, holding it tightly, preventing movement. "There are others… in worse shape. And likely… more hurt. The captain—"

McCoy turns his head away from the Vulcan. "Jim, I'm going to ask you a question that you will answer honestly or you will regret it for the rest of your life. Are you well enough to go back down planet-side and take care of whatever mess you guys left there?"

Jim actually thinks for a moment before nodding. "I should be. You know I've had concussions before, and this doesn't feel like one."

"Good." McCoy turns back to his patient, startled to find the Vulcan looking even paler than before. "They'll go take care of it, you'll get an exam, and then when you don't look like death warmed over you can go help them."

"I—" The Vulcan swallows and nods. "Thank you. Nyota, will you go with him and make sure—"

"Done." The woman tightens her hand once around Spock's before standing with a smile. "We'll be back before you know it, and I'm sure you don't have anything to worry about."

Spock's lips twitch slightly as he watches Uhura walk away. It's easy to see her determination in her stride, a sure-footed stalk despite high heels that isn't impeded at all by her grabbing Jim's arm to drag him along. There is indeed human blood on the back of Jim's neck and lightly staining his shirt, but it already looks like it's drying.

The doors close behind the two officers. Turning to his patient McCoy finds that Spock's eyes are closed, his expression focused, as if trying to overcome pain—

Or keep from vomiting, which he fails to do, lurching up and leaning over the side of the bed. McCoy doesn't like the dark green tinge to the liquid mess.

Or the way Spock lays back limply, eyes half-lidded, breathing harsher than before.

Or the way the blood pressure readings on his scans are doing a steady nosedive.

Well, shit. So much for this being a somewhat amusing incident to relate about the normally stoic first officer.

Cath's almost done setting up the monitors, stepping carefully around the mess the Vulcan made, no distaste showing on her face. Bones likes working with the woman, and he's suddenly very glad it's the two of them on duty.

A quick scan and visual inspection of Spock's exterior doesn't give any indication why his blood pressure's dropping. Given how low normal Vulcan levels are, and Spock's half human heritage… "Spock? Are you still with me?"

The first officer murmurs something under his breath, something with syllables McCoy doesn't think he could imitate to save his life.

"Right. Cath, have you ever done anesthetic maintenance on a Vulcan before?"

The woman shakes her head, brown ponytail bobbing. "No, sir. I've only done one non-human before, and that was…"

He doesn't need to look up from his scans again to know he's led her thoughts down exactly the wrong path. He wishes he could remember which of the dead men she'd helped him with, but his own coping mechanism involves trying very hard not to think about individual cases.

"Doesn't matter, anyway." He smiles at the woman as he prepares a hypo, handing it over to her. "Our lieutenant's a hybrid, meaning he does everything just a little bit differently than both parent species. Don't get caught up trying to remember all your schoolwork. Watch his stats and compare them to the ones from his record. Get my attention if anything seems too odd. Ready?"

She nods, lips tight, brows drawn together in a look of quiet determination.

It takes them less than a minute to prep the Vulcan for surgery.

It takes several long minutes to find the damned internal bleed that's slowly killing him, and McCoy invents several new and inventive terms for hybrids that he hopes will never leave the medical bay. It's just too _frustrating_. He's golden on human biology, and he's been spending most of his down time studying up on the biology of all the various aliens they've got aboard. If Spock were human, he would have been able to pinpoint the problem blindfolded. If Spock were built like a normal Vulcan, he would have been able to actually calibrate the scanner properly, and though he wouldn't have been willing to do surgery blindfolded, he would have felt fine doing it with one hand tied behind his back.

But no. The man's built _mostly_ like a Vulcan, but just when McCoy thinks he's getting his bearings something will be off.

Hell, it would even be all right if all the changes were from Vulcan to Human. That would make things too easy, though. Instead the damn hybrid has to invent whole new ways of doing perfectly normal things, like shunting blood to the liver or, in this case, helpfully pumping it into a useless pool in the man's abdominal cavity.

Once he locates the problem it's easy enough to fix, and he watches in relief as his first officer's blood pressure slowly climbs back up to its rather limp normal value. He gives Spock a little bit of time to stabilize before setting to work on the myriad _other_ problems he found while searching for the more pressing one.

With each injury he works on he can feel his own blood pressure rising. He's seen a lot in his short time as chief medical examiner for the _Enterprise_, had seen a lot even before then. He's seen good men die in a myriad of horrible ways. But what he sees as he works on his first officer is something he hasn't seen before, something he never really expected to see.

He sees malice. He sees hatred, vented in blunt force on another living body. He sees systematic, brutal abuse that amounts to attempted murder.

Whatever happened down on the planet, it sure as hell wasn't a simple bar fight.

He's ready for a rush of casualties. He's ready for Jim to come back and explain things. He's ready for anything but the continued silence of sick bay, broken only by the quiet blips from the monitors scanning Spock.

He works for almost an hour on the Vulcan hybrid, more because it gives his hands and mind something to do other than fret than because Spock really needs the extra care. Even with all he does, the Vulcan's going to hurt like hell when he wakes up.

Finally admitting that he's done all that he possibly can, McCoy helps Cath ease their patient into a fresh uniform. He hopes the first officer wasn't terribly fond of his street clothes, because the blood stained rags are incinerator food. When he's certain that the Vulcan's well on his way to waking up, he sends Cath back to her own studies and pulls up a chair next to the medical bed.

He doesn't have long to wait. Whatever else may be true, Spock's got a bit of hybrid vigor going for him, and he's blinking before either a Human or a Vulcan should be.

"Hey there." McCoy keeps his tone light and even, trying not to startle his patient. "How're you feeling?"

"Doctor McCoy." Spock turns his head just enough for McCoy to see both eyes—or, rather, the swelling and bruising around both eyes and his nose.

"Yep." Bones tries to reign in his impatience, giving the Vulcan a chance to get his bearings again before hitting him with all the questions he has.

"Have the captain and n—" The Vulcan pauses and swallows before continuing, his expression growing more alert. "Have the captain and Lieutenant Uhura returned?"

"Not yet. And I asked you a question first."

"I feel much better, thank you." Annoyance lightly traces the Vulcan's words as he stares straight ahead, expression a mask of indifference.

McCoy struggles not to clench his fists. He's going to be patient and kind if it kills him. "So, most of the blood was from a broken nose and there were others in worse shape, huh?"

"I'm not a doctor, Doctor." Still not meeting his gaze, Spock flexes his shoulders experimentally.

"If you sit up I will put you so far under you won't wake up until next week." Bones is proud of the serenity in his tone as makes the suggestion. "Now, care to tell me what the hell happened down there?"

There's a moment of silence before Spock states, quite simply, "No."

"No?" McCoy leans forward in the chair. "Someone systematically beat you, Spock. You've got a concussion. You had two cracked ribs. You were bleeding internally because someone left a roughly size twelve steel-toed boot print in your liver and pancreas. How the hell they found them I don't know, given how much work it takes _me_ to find them, but from the looks of things they weren't above trial and error. I want to know why someone tried to beat my first officer to death, okay?"

Another long moment of silence stretches, and McCoy is starting to wonder whether he's pushed too hard or not hard enough when Spock finally speaks. His voice is a whisper, hollow, empty.

"They believed I was a Romulan."

"So they tried to kill you?" The words are out before the gears are finished turning in his head, horrified realization dawning. The _Narada_, Vulcan, the loss of over ninety percent of the senior cadets from the Academy…

"Yes, Doctor." It's the same tone, soft, empty, haunting, and McCoy fights the urge to shudder. "They wished revenge for lost companions. Recompense for Vulcan. They would not tolerate _filthy evil monstrous creatures_ keeping company with them."

"How the hell could they… I mean…" Bones can't grasp the argument he wants to make. Things like that don't happen anymore. Not in this day and age, not in a Starfleet port. But he knows people, and he's seen the bitter truth of the sentiment stamped into living flesh, so he doesn't tackle the bigger problem. "Did you tell them you were Vulcan?"

"They did not believe me. I… look too human, one said. I have human eyes. I allowed myself to smile at one of the captain's attempts at humor. I did not strike them as being Vulcan, and the only closely related species are the Romulans." The edge is still missing from Spock's tone, the sharp wit and swift sarcasm that he usually wields.

"Why didn't Jim and Uhura—"

"The captain was otherwise engaged. He evidently finds taverns a fascinating place. Lieutenant Uhura was with me, but her opinion seemed only to increase their ire." The first hint of life bleeds back into the Vulcan's voice. "Perhaps due to the names she used when debating with them."

"Are there even Romulans in Starfleet? We're not terribly fond of them, last time I checked." McCoy winces the moment the words are out of his mouth. He doesn't say that by 'not fond' he means 'at cold war with', rather than the more personal 'beating the hell out of at every opportunity'. It shouldn't need saying.

"There are six Romulans currently employed by Starfleet. Three are defectors from the Empire. Three are hybrids."

"Hybrids? With what species? First contact was only what, twenty-four years ago?"

"Humanity has always been eager to explore new… territories, Doctor." The edge is creeping back into Spock's voice, the cultured Vulcan disdain for everything not-Vulcan.

It's the first and hopefully the last time McCoy will ever have to admit to himself that he's glad to hear it. "You'd be up a creek without a paddle if we didn't."

"If you are referring to the fact I would not be alive if you didn't, I concur." Spock shifts slightly, almost restlessly compared to his usual behavior, though he's smart enough not to sit up. "There has truly been no word from the captain?"

"I would tell you if there had been." Bones studies his patient. "What's so important that you didn't want to come get checked out and had to send him back down there?"

"During the altercation, I put a man's head through the tavern wall." Spock's voice is perfectly, deadly calm, the only possible hint of emotion the fact that it's quieter than usual.

McCoy stares down at his patient. "Through a metal wall?"

"No. The tavern was… retro, I believe is the word the captain used. The walls were wooden." The Vulcan continues to stare straight ahead. "I do not believe a metal wall would have yielded before—"

"It was wooden. All right." Bones tries hard not to think about what would happen to a human skull caught between the irresistible force of an irate Vulcan and the immoveable object of a solid metal wall. He mostly succeeds. "Was he… alive?"

"I do not know, Doctor." Spock's words are precise, almost clipped, the Standard that a computer might produce. "I was otherwise occupied at the time."

Occupied getting beaten half to death. Sometimes McCoy hates people. Spock lost everything to the _Narada_. He had very nearly sacrificed himself to save Earth, and this was the thanks he got for it.

Bones resists the urge to reach over and pat his first officer comfortingly on the shoulder. If it was Jim, he would have in a heartbeat, but this is one patient for whom standard physical contact would probably be _more_ stressful rather than less. "Jim'll take care of it. I'm sure there was an emergency response team there, anyway. Bar fights involving property damage always get the owner's piqued."

"I need to know the man's condition so that I can determine what my next course of action should be." Spock's still staring straight ahead, burning a hole in the ceiling. It's starting to get disconcerting.

"I don't see how there's much doubt as to your next course of action. You stay here, you rest and recuperate, you go back to the bridge in a few days, and you make Jim find a better spot for shore leave next time."

"I do not think it will be that simple. I might very well have killed a man, Doctor."

Spock shifts his head to meet McCoy's gaze, and Bones has to work hard not to draw in a sharp breath. The hybrid's eyes _are_ human. It's hard to tell where exactly the emotional expression comes from—slight shifts in the positions of his eyebrows, a coordinated tightening of small ocular muscles, maybe even a minute shift in the position of his lips. It doesn't matter where the small changes are located, though, because added all together they show very clearly that the Vulcan is in agony.

"Spock…" McCoy gropes for words. He's never tried to defend attempted murder before. He never thought he'd have any reason to. "They were trying to kill you."

"No. At that point they were trying to hurt and humiliate me." Turning away again, Spock resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. "My action was unprofessional and out of line."

"When you say hurt and humiliate—"

"Yes, Doctor, they had struck me. But there were other ways I could have responded. Vulcan techniques of combat that would have disabled but not permanently harmed them." A shudder runs the length of the man's body. "What I did was respond in a childish, emotional outburst. It was unbecoming of my rank and heritage."

"You think they were right." The pieces finally fall into place. "Spock, do not tell me you're letting a bunch of fucking stupid human idiots convince you that you're not Vulcan enough. Because listening to stupid people is _stupid_. And because even if it was true, guess what? You're not a full-blooded Vulcan. Being half-human makes it all right to, you know, _be human_."

"As my attackers were human?" Spock's looking at him again, and there's fire in the half-Vulcan's stare. Anger—no, rage, coupled with confusion and fear and God knows what else. "There is a _reason_ Vulcans eliminate their emotions, Doctor. Logic is not supposed to allow for fear of the unknown. Logic does not allow for rash actions."

"Logic does not allow for love of one's family. Logic does not allow for love of one's children. Logic does not allow for love of one's shipmates." He's not supposed to be yelling at his patient, but what the hell, bedside manner has never been his selling point.

Spock's shaking his head before McCoy's done talking. "On the contrary. Logic allows for sacrifice far more easily than emotion. The good of the many over the good of the few. Those who will serve the future over those who have served in the past. For example, the captain's father acted logically when he sacrificed himself to save his crew."

"The captain's father acted emotionally to save his wife and child and the people he cared about because he worked with them." It was the first story Jim ever told him about home, during their second week of Academy. Logic, emotion, duty, everything had led George Kirk to that irrevocable, terrible decision that shaped his son's life. "Bad example with that one. Logic and emotion both screwed the man over. But it wasn't logic that saved Earth from the _Narada_."

"But it was emotion that destroyed Vulcan. Senseless rage and despair over the loss of loved ones driving the genocide of billions of people who had no part in the loss." Spock is sitting up on his elbows, muscles tight, every inch of his being devoted to the conversation.

"Senseless determination and indomitable will driving the salvation of billions." McCoy gropes for the right words, because he's got a crazy, illogical feeling that Spock's actually looking to lose this argument. "Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, right? That's what you Vulcans believe. The same parts strung together in a variety of ways creating innumerable possibilities. It's not emotion itself that's wrong. It's what you do with it. Just like it's not logic itself that's right. Logic would suggest that sacrificing a few in medical trials to save many would be perfectly all right."

"Only if argued by a sociopath or someone with little knowledge of ethical background." Spock settles back down, expression thoughtful. "This is an old debate, Doctor. It does not change the fact that I should not have acted as I did. The captain may be required to turn me over for court martial."

"Over my dead body."

It's gratifying to have startled the Vulcan twice in one evening. "You would—"

"I would protest someone stealing my patient and putting him on trial for trying to save his own life. And I have medical proof that you were indeed in danger of death, so." Bones grins. "Just let them try."

"I was asking you to assist justice, not…" Spock trails off. "We will see what transpires."

What transpires is a long night of waiting. The late-night staff arrive at midnight, and Bones is gratified to see that though they're all relaxed none of them are the least bit drunk. It had been hard, trying to strike a middle ground between letting them enjoy their shore leave and reminding them that they couldn't afford to be reckless if they were on the rotation list.

Jim doesn't come back, though, and attempts to contact him via communicator only get a terse, "Later."

So McCoy sits with his first officer, and the two of them talk, debate, argue, and otherwise engage in verbal dueling that is both exhausting and enlightening. The hybrid is methodical and implacable in driving home his points. Bones hasn't had to defend his basic tenets with so much vigor since his freshmen medical ethics class, and that was a small lifetime ago.

At three he insists the Vulcan sleep, or meditate, or whatever else he'll willingly do that involves rest and not staring at the door to sick bay hoping for the captain to suddenly materialize. McCoy takes up a perch on the bed beside his first officer, intending to keep an eye on him and make sure he actually does what he claims he's going to do.

Which makes it quite a shock when the next thing he knows Jim's shaking his shoulder.

"Bones. Come on. Rise and shine. Bright new morning and all that jazz."

Jim's in uniform, and there are dark circles under his eyes and bruises all over his face but he's grinning like an idiot anyway.

"Where the hell have you been?" The words come out slightly garbled, sleep tangling his tongue as McCoy struggles to orient himself. Right. Sickbay. Stubborn Vulcan. Attempted murder in self defense. "What happened down there?"

"I was just taking care of things with authorities. Is it all right to wake him up?" Jim nods toward where Spock is lying serenely on his back, arms at his side.

For one horrifying moment Bones finds himself thinking of coffins, the Vulcan laid out for his final rest. Then the man's leg twitches slightly, just the faintest human sign of dreaming, and the illusion shatters.

"What time is it?" There are simply not enough clocks in sick bay. He's going to have to have Scotty fix that. Blinking blearily at his watch, McCoy nods. "Yeah. He's been out for seven hours. Besides, he'll sleep better if he knows how things turned out."

"Good." There's an edge to Jim's grin, the wolf successfully carrying back ill-gotten gains to the pack. Taking the two steps to stand by his first officer, Jim reaches down with his right hand to tap him sharply on the shoulder. "Spock."

The Vulcan is instantly awake and alert, sitting up on his elbows again with only the faintest wince. "Captain."

"First officer." Jim's grin widens as he extends his left hand, which is clenched into a fist. "I believe these belong to you."

Opening his hand, Jim allows a half-dozen rank insignia to flutter down onto the Vulcan's bed.

Spock stares at the small stripes, reaching down tentatively to finger one. "I… do not understand."

"The gang who started the mess. They've been court-marshaled and demoted as low as they can go, with no prospect of rising in rank again for the next ten years or so." The hunter's grin is back on Jim's face. "I thought you'd appreciate that. Seems kind of like your style."

"I do appreciate it. Thank you, captain." Spock's voice is soft and strained, barely audible as he raises his eyes to meet Kirk's. "There were seven men, though."

"There were. One Ensign Charles Dayton is currently being treated for his injuries. Upon his release from the _Intrepid's_ sick bay he will be court marshaled and dishonorably discharged for striking two superior officers and otherwise inciting activities unbecoming of Starfleet personnel."

Spock's hand clenches spasmodically around the insignia he's holding. His eyes close, and Bones could swear the man's trying with all his might not to mirror his captain's smile. "Thank you, Jim."

It would be an overstatement to say that the entire medical bay went silent. But not by much.

"You are very welcome, Spock." Jim's voice is gentle, the hunter's edge gone as he gently pushes at his first officer's shoulder, urging the man to lie down again. "I don't take kindly to anyone hurting my crew. Lieutenant Uhura said to tell you she'll be up as soon as she can. She's taking care of some last-minute business. For now I'm going to guess at doctor's orders and suggest you are to lie down and rest more. How close am I, Bones?"

"Close enough." McCoy scrambles up to his feet, inspecting the latest stats on his patient and calling up the scans from when he was asleep. Everything looks good—great, considering the condition the Vulcan had been in. "I'd suggest you order breakfast first and then lie down and rest more. We'll see about getting you back on your feet this afternoon. And before you try to run away, Jim, I am going to look at your head."

"Bones, it's fine. I've been running around for over twelve hours and I—" Kirk meets his eyes and sighs. "I am going to come with you and sit still and have a thorough physical exam. Got it. Do I at least get points for saying I want to go and sleep?"

Rolling his eyes, McCoy grabs his captain's arm and leads him away from Spock. He chooses a location where the first officer's obnoxious pointy Vulcan ears won't be able to hear them. "Nice work, Jim. Though I very much doubt you were able to hold a court-marshal and get a verdict in fourteen hours."

"Well, I may have been stretching things there. But it's what's going to happen. I've made damn sure of it." The grimness in Kirk's voice is still new, a tone that he's been developing more and more since Starfleet gave him the _Enterprise_. "I'm the one who brought him down there, Bones."

"To enjoy himself, I imagine." Scanning the back of Jim's head reveals no serious injuries. Even the scalp wound that had been bleeding is relatively minor. "You couldn't have known there'd be bigoted assholes there who don't even know how to differentiate species."

"No. But I should have noticed earlier something was up. He and Uhura were just sitting together, hiding at the back of the bar. I didn't think they'd get into trouble. Next thing I know Spock's got a split lip and some idiots trying to kick him in the balls and he's just _taking_ it. Me, he tries to choke to death. Them, he talks to. Until Uhura gets in the way and they hit her, too. Then he puts their leader's head through the wall and starts a freakin' inter-ship riot." Jim sighs. He smiles, but the expression seems forced, tired, drained. "Vulcans. You can't take them anywhere."

"He was trying to reason with them. They were accusing him of being a Romulan." Interesting, too, the few details Spock had left out of his version of events.

"They were drunk, Bones. Drunk and mean and looking for a fight. Trust me, I know." Jim looks down at his own hands, self-deprecation in his tone and his smile. "They picked what they thought would be an easy target and prodded at him until they got a reaction."

"If you hadn't brought him back up here he really could have died, Jim. There was legitimate hate in that attack." McCoy considers the results of his scans a moment before prepping a hypo.

"Do not stick me with that until you tell me what it is and ask my permission." Jim leans away from the offending instrument. "He's going to be all right?"

"He'll be fine. I'm good at my job. And stop fidgeting so damn much, it's just a painkiller." He resists the urge to use more force than necessary when administering the medication. Really, one series of unfortunate medical events and some people lose all respect. "Now, same orders I gave him. Go get something to eat and then sleep. If I hear you've been on the bridge today you will not be on the bridge tomorrow. You will be sleeping here under my supervision with medical intervention if necessary."

"Bones, I just spent thirteen hours of my shore leave calling in emergency personnel, ensuring that a sub-human wretch I would very much like to see castrated and flayed alive got the best possible medical care, seeing that none of the _Enterprise's_ crew ended up in planetary custody, arguing with the _Intrepid's _gorgeous but hideously practical captain, and all with a splitting headache. I would like nothing more than to go sleep in my own bed."

Jim's got an I'm-so-pathetic face that would do a hurt puppy proud, and he uses it to good effect. McCoy doesn't have it in him to confine the man to sickbay.

The day is filled with a steady trickle of minor injuries as people wake up, sober up, and realize that they're sore. The skeleton crew he's got on rotation throughout the duration of shore leave doesn't have a problem handling the load. It's almost relaxing, dealing with minor scrapes, sprains, cuts and bruises.

Which is maybe why Bones also doesn't have it in him to get too upset when he hears Jim's on the bridge that evening. It's not like there's anything stressful to do up there while they orbit a planet.

Spock's out of sick bay on the second day, and though McCoy knows the Vulcan must still be sore he can't tell it from the way Spock moves. He probably should have kept the man for another day or two, but he was obviously uncomfortable being confined. Bones can't blame him. As much as he tries to keep his people professional, the oddity of having their first officer under their care coupled with the wild tales surrounding how he'd come to be in the condition he was in meant the Vulcan was under near-constant scrutiny.

On the fourth day Jim calls down to sick bay and asks him if he can take Spock out for dinner. It's not the best phrasing he could have used, and McCoy can hear the laughter from the bridge as well as the muffled giggles from his people behind him. A glare quiets the people on Bones' end, while Jim seems to be laughing along with the people on his end.

"What I meant, Bones, was is he medically fit for transport to the surface. And are you free tonight, if he is."

There's another round of laughter, and McCoy can just see Jim's face as he revels in it. The captain should not enjoy being the in-flight entertainment as much as he does.

"Yes and yes, Captain. Medical out." He doesn't give Jim the pleasure of prolonging the conversation. Some of them have work to do, shore leave or no.

But he does give Jim the pleasure of his company that night, despite the fact that it means digging around in his closet for non-uniform clothes. Damn planets with stupid regulations about off-duty personnel being in civilian clothes.

They make a good-sized party, himself, Jim, Spock, Scotty and Uhura, but Jim's obviously put some thought and planning into the outing. The places they go are more upscale than the usual haunts Jim drags him to, though not too fancy. Nice enough that they can hear each other over the music, which occasionally even shows signs of class; not so nice that McCoy feels out of place, despite the fact that Jim, Spock and Uhura are all still sporting bruises.

It's relaxing, a chance to talk about things other than work, a chance to drink without desperately needing to get drunk, a chance to laugh without having to worry about who's watching and what they're going to think. A chance to be himself, just Bones, Jim's best friend, not the chief medical examiner of the _Enterprise_ who's responsible for keeping everyone alive despite their best efforts to the contrary. He revels in it, and he suspects the rest of the officers do, too.

Even Spock, who he maybe, just maybe, catches smiling for a moment, human eyes shining in his serene Vulcan face.


	4. Chekov

**Disclaimer:** I love them, but I don't own them.

**Warning:** There is a fair bit of medical happenings in this as well as talk of torture.

**Author's Note:** This one got away from me. It's going to juxtapose directly into the next part.

_The People He Sees_

_Four: Chekov_

The fourth person through surgery is the youngest officer on the _Enterprise_.

The computer helpfully pulls up previous scans of the man, complacently, heartlessly pointing out everything that's wrong with the human's body. McCoy has to bite down on his tongue to keep the order to turn it off from getting past his lips. He needs the information it's displaying, and it's not the computer's fault that they're in this position.

It's his.

He should have noticed something was wrong. He should have caught it on his scans. He should have seen it, looking into Jim's eyes. But he didn't.

The kid's in bad shape, just like the other three had been, but that's where the similarities between the cases end. Deep lacerations etch every inch of the boy's skin he can see, but that's not what he's supposed to be working on. They've put bandages and other emergency measures over the superficial injuries, keeping as much of the young man's remaining blood in his veins as they possibly can. Now there are more pressing problems, like trying to repair the dozen stab wounds riddling the kid's abdomen.

Stab wounds. _Stab wounds_ from a damn rapier, and he's in danger of losing the boy.

The Russian's bowel's been perforated in too many places to count, but it's Bones job to enumerate and patch each one individually. That can wait, though, until he's done stopping the hemorrhaging from the ensign's liver where a particularly brutal strike went clear through the boy's body.

McCoy doesn't look at the boy's face while he works. He can't afford to think of him as Pavel Andreievich Chekov, whose eighteenth birthday party he attended nine days ago. If he thought of him as Pavel, he might have to think about what Pavel went through in the ten hours between when the landing party returned and when they finally realized something was horribly wrong.

The _Enterprise_ has the best medical technology the galaxy can offer. It's small comfort when facing the wreckage that had, until a very short while ago, been an incredibly healthy young man. Still, it means he can do everything humanly possible to correct injuries that he should have prevented from being incurred in the first place.

His staff is just as grimly silent as he is, speaking only when necessary to point out addition bleeds and possible places where he's missed something. He should compliment them on their efforts, but he can't bring himself to do it right now. Later. After they've found all the injured and taken care of them. After they've figured out how and why this has happened.

After they've figured out how to help the landing party, and he can't think about that, either. Can't imagine Jim sedated and strapped to the bed. Can't remember the look in Jim's eyes as he lunged again and again for his first officer, savage and snarling and—

God, he shouldn't have let this happen.

His hands aren't shaking, and he focuses hard on the task in front of him to ensure it stays that way. Deal with things one at a time. They've caught five out of the six members of the landing party. The boy on the table now is the last of the known victims. He can put as much time and effort into him as he needs to, and he'll be damned before he lets the kid die. Everything will be all right.

Jim will be all right.

Chekov will be all right.

"Doctor, we're reading a-fib."

He doesn't let any tremor reach his hands despite the burst of adrenaline that shoots through him. It's only atrial fibrillation. Not good, but not horrible. Something they can treat, as long as it doesn't progress any further. "Ease up on the anesthesia. How are his other stats doing? Is the blood replacement—"

"Respiration and oxygen saturation within normal limits. BP still low. We're maintaining blood volume, but not making much headway in replacing it." Christine's voice is crisp and calm as she reads the stats out to him, allowing him to continue finding and patching holes in the boy's viscera. "A-fib seems to be stabilizing… no… doctor, we're reading no atrial contractions. Ventricular pacemaker only."

Oh, hell. "Get an impulse generator over here stat. Nurse, do you know how—good. You are not dying on me, you Russian bastard. You hear me?"

McCoy continues doggedly at his own work. His people know what they're doing. He's trained them to do it well and efficiently in the middle of a crisis, and no matter how much this damn case hurts, the stress level's still lower than during a spacefight. "How's he responding?"

"We had normal rhythm for a moment, but we're losing it again." The worry in Christine's voice is buried, controlled, but he can still hear it. "Doctor, scans indicate interference in the electrical conductivity system of the heart."

"From _what_?" McCoy growls the words, eyes fixed on a puncture wound in the boy's large colon. His hands know what to do, leaving his mind free to worry at this new disaster. "What was his condition when he came in? Did we do a tox scan?"

"No, sir. He was bleeding so badly—"

"Get a tox screen set up. Hit him with a cardiac glycoside for now, and keep a hypo of epinephrine ready." They don't have time to run a tox screen now.

They hadn't had time to run it when they found the ensign, either, too worried about keeping him from bleeding out. He'd looked so small compared to the stretcher, a still, barely breathing form covered in swirling, livid red cuts. The security detail that had finally located him hadn't even bothered to remove the cuffs that had bound him hand and foot. Handcuffs intertwined with rose stalks, the thorns cutting into his hands, tiny blue flower petals in his curling hair, the lurid artwork covering his skin, and God, this shouldn't have happened—

Tiny blue flower petals in his hair.

Of course. It only made sense, given who it was that tortured him. "It's a plant-derived toxin. Cross-reference with everything in the _Enterprise's_ gardens and Mr. Sulu's quarters."

Nearly a full minute ticks by, and he doesn't need Christine or any of the others to tell him that it's almost more time than they have to spare. He doesn't even need to look up at the scans. He's gotten far too good at picking out the dying and the hopeless from only the sounds. It works well in the middle of fight, when he's running triage and every second is precious.

It's torture now.

"Nurse…"

"Got it." Giddy relief tints Chris's tone. "Cath, 2 ccs of metapoxin, jugular injection. Good call, doctor. It's Haverian trip-seed. At low doses an analgesic, at high doses known to cause cardiac toxicity."

An analgesic. He wants to imagine it as a human move, but then he sees Jim's face again, twisted in mindless rage. It isn't time to think about things like that yet. "Great. Fantastic, long as it's treatable."

"Done."

He doesn't need another status update, but he asks for one anyway. It's comforting to hear the numbers, to listen to the steady voices of his crew as they follow his orders.

He works on the Russian for almost two hours, carefully finding and closing every internal injury he can find. He needs to be done before they locate—

"Security report, sir. They've found Anders. She's already past the point of coherency." Christine's voice is still steady, still a lifeline to sanity, despite the tears he can hear in it. "She had Sammy with her. She—dead, sir. Security reports she's dead. They're transporting Anders down to an isolation room as soon as they can tranquilize her."

He nods. He can't speak, so he let's his hands keep working. It's the best thing he can do now, the loudest cry he can give against the injustice of the situation. Kaylee Anders killed Sammy Wellis. One of his doctors, one of the best damn doctors he's been training, killed her best friend.

Because he sent her down there.

Because he didn't see it, when they came back up.

"Stats on all our current patients, nurse." His voice is steadier than he expected it to be. That's good. Steady is good.

Christine starts with Chekov and works her way through their other surgical patients in reverse chronological order. Everyone's still stable, the only good piece of news he's gotten all day.

"I assume, doctor, that we should prepare an isolation room for Mr. Chekov, as well?" There's just the faintest quiver of fear in Christine's voice. Someone who hadn't worked with her as often and in as many bad situations as McCoy has would have missed it.

"Yeah." Bones runs his scanner over the ensign's viscera one final time, supplementing a visual inspection. "That's it. I'll finish here, then you two can recheck the dressings on the superficial wounds. If everything looks good, hit him with dexamycin and paninhibin, then get him into an isolation room."

It would give the boy a fighting chance, at least. There was undoubtedly going to be a raging infection from the damaged gastrointestinal tract. That wasn't what they were really trying to protect the compromised from, though, and everyone in medical knew it.

They checked the landing party. They checked them for every recognizable type of bacteria, virus, protozoa and fungi. Hell, he'd even checked them for prion diseases. No one ever accused him of being less than paranoid about the dangers of uncharted worlds.

And yet he still missed it.

Stripping out of his biohazard gear is a relief. The material is thin and nearly transparent, adhering to him like a second skin. They were supposed to be comfortable, and most of his classmates had claimed they could forget they even had them on, but Bones was never one of them. He was always acutely aware of the gown, an itchy consciousness of the flimsy-looking layer of protection between him and whatever biohazard he was working on.

Like Chekov probably was.

Like Jim almost certainly was.

Damn it. Damn everything to whatever hell was out there.

Decontamination is quick, a brief flash of light that should eliminate any lingering particles that aren't being incinerated on the biohazard gown. He still goes and washes his hands afterwards, because it's comforting and because it gives him an excuse to scratch at the phantom itching of unknown microbes. Burrowing into his skin, crawling through his blood, colonizing in his brain, and would he know something was wrong? Would he recognize the signs of the disease, knowing what to look out for? Or would he be too far gone by that point?

He doesn't shiver. He's too tired, and shivering just can't encompass enough of the horror of the situation to defuse it.

"Raya!"

The other doctor is at his side quickly, onyx eyes staring up at him, and he doesn't like the concern he sees there.

"Yes, doctor?"

"Status of the landing party, please."

Her pale hands flutter, a sign that he's learned over the months is a nervous gesture for her people. "Lieutenant Riley has shown the most decline. He seized twice in the last hour. The second seizure lasted for six and a half minutes before I used diazepam to bring him out. Thankfully that was quite efficacious. His psychological status remains largely unchanged, though. Ensign Ratho and Captain Kirk have both demonstrated abnormal neuronal patterns that may indicate future seizure activity. Jordan, Sulu and Anders all remain… in earlier stages of the illness."

"All right. Good work." He doesn't order her to keep them alive. He doesn't tell her that they're running out of time. He's trained his people well, and they know just as well as he does what they're up against. "Keep me updated on any further changes. I'm going to go assist Lieutenant Spock."

He finds Spock right where he expects him to be, prowling around the medical lab as he directs a cadre of blue-shirted scientists. It's hard to tell from their deference and dead silence whether the other scientists are in awe of the Vulcan or terrified of him. McCoy suspects it's probably both.

"So? Any progress?"

"Some, though not nearly as much as I had hoped." Spock finishes reading the analysis on his screen before turning around. His expression is calm, as always.

Usually that calm doesn't make Bones want to punch him. His hand flexes into a fist, knuckles cracking at the unaccustomed movement.

The silence in the lab takes on a new gravitas, and McCoy doesn't need to look away from Spock to understand the terror that's suddenly filling the room. Is this it? Is this the first confirmed case of whatever-the-hell-it-is outside the landing party? Did this mean all their control measures meant nothing?

"No. Just means your CMO's having a really lousy day." He whispers the words to himself, shaking out his hand as he does. Punching anyone would be a bad idea. Punching Spock would probably be the worst idea. If they're to have any chance of overcoming the malady, they need the Vulcan's mind.

The tension in the room breaks, the rustling of technicians running test after test resuming. Spock's expression hasn't changed much, still an effigy of perfect control.

Or maybe not. His brows are drawn together slightly, and there's the faintest downward quirk of his mouth that might indicate concern. McCoy's been spending _way_ too much time with the Vulcan, to catch the subtleties of expression the alien allows himself.

"Doctor, you have had a very trying seven hours of emergency surgery." Spock's concern, if it's even really there, doesn't reach his voice. "It may be best if you rest."

"Later. Trust me, I'm not going to be sleeping now." He wasn't planning on sleeping until this fiasco was over, one way or the other. Much as he hated stimulants, he'd use them for this. Walking over to stand at the Vulcan's side, he peers at the monitor. He recognizes the scans that are up. He stared at them for a good fifteen minutes after Jim snapped, before security brought in the first casualty and exactly how bad the situation was began to sink in. "What have we learned?"

"That your initial scans and impressions were correct. We can find no viral, bacterial, fungal, protozoan, trauma or prion-based cause for their condition. Yet something is definitely causing massive alterations to their neural biochemistry, and the changes are worsening by the hour." Hitting a few keys on his terminal, Spock brings up a series of additional scans.

Bones can feel the blood leave his face. "God above. Whose—"

"The captain's." There's a tension, a tightness to the way Spock says the word. "The alterations started in the emotional processing centers and have, as you can see, spread rapidly. All of the afflicted show a similar pattern. And yet twelve hours ago… nothing. Whatever this is, once it is activated or clears its dormancy period, it proceeds rapidly."

McCoy refrains from saying they already knew that. "Any sign of what it might be in the more recent scans?"

"Negative. I have Lieutenant Uhura in contact with the native civilization. Though they claim no knowledge of a disease such as this, they have agreed to provide us with medical records from their archives, that we might try to cross-reference symptoms." Spock leans back in his chair. "It is possible that this is a more virulent form of a native disease process. One that our species' are not equipped to handle."

"Diseases have causes, Spock. We find the cause, we figure out how to kill it. What can I do that you don't already have these guys doing?"

"Doctor, I really don't think—"

"Spock, I am working on this with or without you. With you will probably get us further faster, and time is something we can't afford to waste right now." Drawing a deep breath, McCoy forces himself to relax, unclenching his fists. Again. "You've got the science background, I've got the medical background. Let's help each other."

"Very well, doctor." The Vulcan inclines his head slightly before turning to the blue-shirted science officer working at the station next to him. "Ms. Evans, if you would go assist Mr. Leroux, I believe Dr. McCoy will have need of your terminal."

His muscles burn as he settles into the chair. It's been nearly eight hours since he last sat, and though it's not the first time he's done a long shift on the _Enterprise_, it's the first time he's tried to _think_ after one. He sits and stares blankly at the images flashing by on his screen for almost a full minute before getting down to the business of trying to make sense of them.

No matter which way he looks at it, though, nothing new jumps out at him. The preliminary scans are clean; then they're not, but the underlying mechanism, the damned causative agent or agents, doesn't show up.

"Doctor McCoy to isolation room ten, please. Dr. McCoy, please report to isolation room ten."

Bones blinks up at the com system, heart already beating way too fast. That was Raya's voice, and he can tell from the pitch that she's terrified.

Everyone's looking at him as he runs over to the wall and slams his hand down on the button to toggle in a reply. "What's going on?"

There's a long pause before the answer—too long. Something's wrong, and given the nature of the problem they're facing, there's not much doubt as to what.

Raya's voice is thin but steady, though the pitch is still higher than usual. "I think you really need to come see for yourself."

"I'll be there in thirty seconds."

He doesn't wait to see what everyone else is going to do. He's not going to take the chance that anyone, most notably a pointy-eared Vulcan bastard who technically outranks him right now, is going to try to stop him.

Skidding to a stop in front of isolation room ten, he looks through the window, prepared for the worst.

The picture that greets him is almost a pleasant surprise. Chekov leans against the inside of the door, only his head and right hand, wrapped around a hypo, readily distinguishable. The rest of his body is swathed in layers of bandages, stop-gap measures while they waited for the grafts and other repairs they had done to take hold. Raya stands facing the young officer, her hands at her side, and her biohazard suit looks like it's still intact.

McCoy punches the intercom button, using a bit more force than necessary. "Ensign Chekov, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Doctor McCoy?" Chekov half turns to face the window.

McCoy fights the urge to wince. The boy looks like hell warmed over. His cheeks are fever-red, and his hair sticks to his face in soggy curls. If the ensign wasn't holding one of his medical personnel hostage, McCoy would actually feel bad for him. "Chekov, go sit down on the bed. You do not want to make me come in there with you."

The Russian draws himself up, scowling fiercely. "I am not a _rebenok_."

The kid's not being violent, at least. Not yet. "I could not pronounce that word you just said if I tried, Chekov, and I have no idea what it means."

"Child." The young man swallows, breathing rapid and shallow. Blood is starting to stain the bandages over his chest and arms, seeping through in small patches. "I am not… a child. I am a Starfleet officer. I have a right to know why I am imprisoned, and I v… w… I wish to know what happened to Sulu."

The last question is going to be the hardest to answer, especially since he doesn't know what answer the Russian wants. "Son, you're not imprisoned."

Chekov's scowl deepens. "I cannot leave. And I am _not_ a child."

Bones doesn't argue that the boy's only half his age. He's got a feeling Chekov isn't in the mood to listen. "Whatever Sulu contracted, the rest of the landing party has it too. We've got them all in isolation. Given how much unprotected contact you had with him… there's a very good chance you're harboring it, too. Isolation is just a precaution. We'll figure out what it is, get you checked out, and get you out of there. Assuming you haven't killed yourself by doing foolhardy things like wandering around and threatening doctors barely an hour after life-saving surgery."

"Zat… zat really vas Sulu?" Chekov's accent is thicker, his face paler, and it's obvious that he's using the wall to stay upright.

"Ensign, go sit down at least. Please."

The young officer hesitates for a moment before nodding, walking awkwardly over and easing himself down onto the bed. "You said… it was a disease? How could…"

"It happened to all of them." He wants to be in the room. He wants to be able to put a hand on the boy's back, wrap an arm around his shoulders, anything to provide physical contact. The kid may be a genius and an officer, but he's only eighteen, and he looks every inch of it, huddled on the edge of his bed. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out. We'll fix this."

Chekov looks up at him, and Bones can't tell if there are tears on his cheeks as well as sweat or not. Fierce determination sets the young man's mouth in a grim line. "I vill help."

"No, you will _not_." McCoy can't keep a growl out of his voice. "You will sit there and rest and try to recover. You will inform us if you feel… off in any way at all. That's the best way you can help."

"I am a trained scientist. I can do more zen zat."

The young officer continues to fix McCoy with a steady gaze, not quite a glare. A challenge. A proclamation, a declaration of war, a statement that the Russian intends to do something, with or without McCoy's permission. It's a gaze and an intent he's used to meeting and occasionally even defeating.

It's one of Jim's favorite looks.

Silence stretches between them, seconds ticking by, but Bones can't quite get his tongue to work properly. Admonitions, threats, deprecations all catch in his throat as he meets the young man's eyes.

"Ensign." Spock's voice is soft, perfectly calm. McCoy hadn't even noticed the Vulcan arrive. "You know that I respect your abilities, but in this case the doctor is correct. For _now_, the best way you can assist us is by recovering and informing us if you have any preliminary signs of the illness."

"You are certain, Mr. Spock?" The boy looks younger again, unsure of himself. "I vish…"

"I am certain. For now, I have an able-bodied staff that can do things you cannot from an isolation room. If the situation changes and I feel there is something you can do, I will inform you." There's an almost gentle note to Spock's voice, something McCoy hasn't heard often. "I wish to see you recover quickly."

"Aye, sir." Chekov doesn't protest again, lying down on top of the straps that were supposed to keep him bound to the bed. His eyes are closed almost instantly.

"Raya." McCoy waits for the woman to look at him before continuing, ensuring he has her full attention. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, doctor." She hangs her head in embarrassment, hands twining.

"Check him over, do anything that needs to be done, and then come out here and explain what happened." He keeps his tone civil and even. If Chekov's willing to just lie down and sleep, he's going to try his best not to interfere.

Bones makes sure the com interface is off before turning to his first officer. "Why the hell did he listen to you and not me?"

"We have spent more time together." Spock shrugs. "I respect him for his intellect and have never found his age to be a factor worth noting. I think he appreciates that."

"Yeah, well, you're not old enough to be his father, either."

"Nor are you, Doctor."

"No, but I'm cutting it close." Running a hand through his hair, McCoy leans against the window, watching the stats flash by as Raya completes her scan. "You didn't need to come. Medical's my territory. I could have taken care of it."

"Technically the whole ship is my territory, with the captain incapacitated…" The Vulcan trails off, staring awkwardly at a point halfway between them. "You were obviously agitated about the call. Given the emergency nature of our current situation, it was worth ensuring you had… back-up."

He wants to argue with the Vulcan, but that's mostly because he wants to argue with the world right now. "Well, I can definitely handle it from here. Go coordinate and correlate and all that good stuff. Try to have something more informative than what this thing isn't by the time I get back, all right?"

Spock nods and leaves.

It doesn't take long for Raya to finish the scans on Chekov. The young officer wakes up to argue against being strapped down again, but he's coherent and smart, and it's easy enough to convince him of the necessity. McCoy hates the fact that they have to do it. The kid looks pathetic enough swathed in bandages. The restraints only make the picture worse.

Once done with her work Raya explains briefly how the young officer had managed to slip out of the restraints. Bones makes a mental note to reprimand Gary later for not tightening the straps well enough. If they weren't put on right, there wasn't any point to putting them on at all. That could wait, though.

His spot at Spock's right hand is free still. Settling in with a sigh, he pulls up the latest frustrating scans and tests.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Five hours of nothing later, he allows his head to hang down against his chest, closing his eyes for just a moment. Human tear glands weren't designed with staring at computer monitors for long stretches of time in mind, and his eyes feel parched, sandpaper against his eyelids.

When he opens his eyes again, an hour has somehow disappeared from the clock.

It takes a few seconds for him to process that the techs have all vanished from the room, too, leaving only him and Spock. The Vulcan is staring at him, gaze direct and disconcerting.

"Where's everybody?" McCoy straightens in his seat, struggling not to look too pathetic as he smoothes his rumpled blue uniform top. "Did we find it?"

"No. Nothing."

"So why's everyone gone?"

"They were out of stamina."

"Call in new people. We've got rotations for that reason."

"And I am out of tests, Doctor." The weight of the Vulcan's admission hangs in the air between them. "At least… tests that can be done without a more direct sample."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" He doesn't need to ask. Even sleep-starved and sleep-fogged as his brain is, he can tell from the tension in Spock's form exactly what he's asking. "No. No way. None of them can even give consent! How the hell do I choose which one?"

"You know as well as I do that the captain would give consent if he were able. He is not."

"I can't just go rooting around in Jim's brain without his permission! It's barbaric!" The very thought leaves him cold. "We don't do things like that anymore."

"We don't do it because we haven't needed to in some time. Things have… changed." Spock steeples his hands in front of him, fixing his gaze on his fingertips. "We cannot locate the causative agent. Without the agent, we cannot form a cure. Without a cure, the captain and the others will likely be dead within the next ten hours. I need a more direct sample. I need a neural biopsy."

"Spock…" Bones runs his hands over his face, hating the fact that he can understand where the Vulcan's coming from. "We can't. He's not capable of answering questions. If I make the slightest mistake, hit the wrong area… I could kill him."

"The likelihood of his dying—"

"Kill Jim, not his body. I could accidentally take out _anything_, sticking around blindly in his head. And their seizure threshold's already so low—I can't."

"And if you had a patient who was conscious and not currently in danger of seizing? Would you take the risk then?" Spock's gaze rises to meet his.

"Spock…"

The Vulcan doesn't say anything as he reaches for the com system, toggling the switch on. He'd obviously already been talking to the person he's trying to volunteer. "Dr. McCoy is here now."

"Doctor." McCoy recognizes Chekov's voice, his distinct accent. "I would like to wolunteer."

McCoy shakes his head, ignoring the fact that the image won't transmit. "You're not positively identified as infected yet."

Spock's fingers tap out a rhythm on his terminal, pulling up fresh scans. "We are fairly certain from Chekov's reports and scans that he is, indeed, infected, and that decline is proceeding at a rapid rate."

"Damn it. Do you have any idea what you're doing?" He wishes he were face to face with the young officer. He wants to see his expression, see whether or not he truly understands what he's offering. "Procedures like this aren't done anymore. They're taught by Starfleet in case of dire emergencies only. It's _dangerous_ sticking sharp objects inside people's heads. If anything goes wrong—"

"If zings go right, I vill have helped to save myself and my comrades." Chekov's voice is maddeningly calm. "I wish to help, Doctor McCoy. Please."

It's the please that does it. Reaching over to the intercom, he slams the off button before stalking out of the lab, leaving the Vulcan to sit and ponder the logic of it all.

He can't do it. He can't risk an eighteen-year-old boy's mind and life on a gamble, a desperate procedure that he's never done on a living being.

He can't not do it. He can't sit on his hands and wait and watch them all die. Wait to see who else has been infected. Wait to see if they're a plague ship, if Spock will finally head up to the bridge and relieve poor Scotty just in time to input the self-destruct code.

He can't risk Chekov.

He can't let Jim and Chekov and Sulu and all the rest die.

He shouldn't be in a position where he has to make this choice.

If he'd seen it sooner.

If Jim had broken sooner, turned on him rather than waiting until he saw his first officer.

"Doctor."

The pointy-eared green-blooded hobgoblin can apparently teleport without a transporter.

"Doctor, what is happening here is not your fault."

"Like hell it isn't. It's my _job_, Spock." Bones doesn't shout. He's too hollow, too tired.

"You did your job and you did it admirably."

On second thought, maybe there is still some smoldering anger in there. "Admirably? Really? Missing a potential plague until there's a very good chance it's spread throughout the _Enterprise _doesn't really strike me as a fantastic job. I had Jim. I had him with me for _five hours_, Spock. While Sulu was torturing Chekov. While Anders was killing Sammy. I sat with him and I. Didn't. Notice."

"The captain put up a remarkable resistance to the organisms' effects." The Vulcan takes a hesitant step closer. "It was not your fault."

"Why didn't he turn on me? It wouldn't have been much, but it would have been _something_. Less time lost. Fewer people hurt. Why the hell—"

"Because you are a calming influence for him. You are a rock, steady, solid, unbreakably human." Spock's brows draw together and slightly downward. "I am not. I am a challenge. A difficulty to be overcome. A mystery to be subdued. And I was sitting in his chair."

The words form themselves into a picture almost instantly, and Bones hates how perfectly plausible it is. "He lost it because you were sitting in his command chair."

"Yes, Doctor." The ghost of a smile plays around Spock's lips. "And you are the only senior officer I know more reluctant to partake of command than Mr. Scott."

"He held it together for hours and lost it because you were sitting in his damn chair." It shouldn't be hilarious. He shouldn't want to laugh. The sound that comes out isn't quite a laugh, anyway. It's too choked, almost like a sob.

He needs to keep it together. He needs to decide what he's going to do about Chekov.

"Are there others on your staff who would be willing to do the procedure?" The look of faint concern is back on Spock's face.

"I can do it." His voice is steady again, as are his thoughts. "If it's really the only way we can beat this thing, and if I'm certain Chekov really knows what he's volunteering for, I'll do it."

"If you think that is in the best interest of your patient… and yourself." Spock's eyes are low, scanning the floor. "No matter how this situation resolves, Doctor… I do not want you to sacrifice too much of… yourself. Even if we are able to cure the malady, there is a good possibility that there will be permanent damage to the captain… to Jim… and I—"

The Vulcan's nearly rambling, his words coming fast, almost tripping over each other.

"Spock."

Bones catches his first officer's gaze, trying and failing to read all the tiny hints of emotion flitting across the hybrid's face.

That's okay. He can't even tell all the emotions running through his own mind. Trying to read Spock's would likely just confuse things even more. "We'll figure it out. They'll all be okay."

"Statistically, the probability of them—"

"Don't make me hurt you, Spock."

Another faint smile flickers across the Vulcan's face as he inclines his head. "I wouldn't dream of it, Doctor."

It doesn't take long to establish that Chekov is very aware of the risks and very determined to go through with the procedure. Bones takes as much time as he dares preparing for the surgery, scanning through his old course notes, pulling up diagrams and videos on the viewscreen, double-checking that his staff knows exactly what they're supposed to do.

The Russian is perfectly calm and complacent when they enter his room, barely blinking at them. It takes only a few seconds to rearrange the restraint straps and raise the bed to the proper configuration for surgery.

"Are you ready, Chekov?"

"Aye, sir." The young man stares straight ahead. "Tell me vhat I should do."

"Just sit as still as you can and tell me if you feel anything weird. Anything at all. Phantom sensation, hearing, seeing, touching, tasting, smelling anything that isn't here. Anything. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"It would also help if you'd just talk to me." McCoy sets to work opening the young man's skull as he talks. It's deceptively easy.

"Talk about what, sir?"

"Anything." Bones thinks for a moment, struggling to decide where, exactly, to insert the biopsy needle. "How about your birthday party?"

"I don't remember it all that well, sir." He can hear the embarrassment in the man's tone.

Jim really shouldn't get so much pleasure out of taking his officers out for drinks. "That's okay. Tell me about what you do remember."

"I remember dinner. The captain actually managed to find a Russian restaurant, even way out here." The pleasure and joy in the boy's tone are almost painfully strong. "It did not have the best food I have had, but it was quite good."

"It was. I enjoyed it." Gently placing the needle into the incision, McCoy slides it forward slowly. "This is where it's really important to stay still and tell me if anything happens."

"I feel all right." Chekov swallows. "Except for… I can feel it, Doctor. The illness. It's getting harder to fight."

Now is not the time for the kid to lose it. "Just a little bit longer, Chekov. Think of other things. Like after dinner."

"The captain… took us to a bar. Where he loudly proclaimed my age and tried to get Mr. Spock to drink. It was… fun." A shiver runs the length of Chekov's frame.

"Chekov, was that me or you?"

"Neither, sir." The boy's voice drops to a whisper. "Sir, I'm scared. I can… God, I don't want this, I don't want—"

"Pavel Andreievich, hold still."

The Russian goes still.

"Now, tell me what it is that made you shiver."

"I can… feel it happening. I'm losing. _Lord_, I want to hurt someone. I want—" The boy's tongue slides out, gliding over his lips, predatory. "I want wery much to hurt someone. It would be… delicious."

McCoy can't let his hands shake. He can't let the fact that he's watching his patient come apart at the mental seams have any effect on him. "Stay with me, Chekov. Tell me if you feel anything."

"You can let me go, doctor. This procedure is unnecessary." The Russian's voice is low, a quiet purr, and he writhes as much as he can against the restraints. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Chekov." The young man's name is half-plea and half-curse. "Ensign, please…"

The young man only hums to himself. Cursing, McCoy finishes the procedure as quickly as he can, praying he's done everything right.

By the time he hands the neural sample over to Spock, there's nothing left of the quiet young officer in the man tied to the bed. Chekov's raving is still coherent, though it frequently slips over into Russian, but the language is the only thing that really connects him with the doggedly resolute young officer.

"Thank you, Doctor." Spock's hand rises, hovers for a moment over McCoy's shoulder, and then simply falls again. "Hopefully this will give us what we need."

Bones barely has time to wish Spock luck before all hell breaks loose.

Riley's seizing again, and though Raya's tried everything from diazepam to rantherin they can't bring him out of it. Sulu's tachycardic and unresponsive to treatment. Jim's burning through tranquilizers faster than they can safely replace them, and he's somehow worked an arm free of his restraints. The other three members of the landing party are all progressing to seizures, and reports are starting to trickle in of unexpected fights on virtually all decks. Sorting out what might be disease from what's merely terror is difficult.

So Bones figures he can forgive himself for being a little slow on the uptake when a small eternity later Spock whips him around and slaps a hypo into his hand.

"What is this?" Hope sizzles through McCoy's chest, hot, painful, small.

"It should be the answer to our problems."

McCoy's hand clenches hard on the hypo. "You isolated the agent?"

"Isolated it, described it, and, in theory, have found a treatment for it. I cannot guarantee its efficacy or safety—I ran as many tests as I felt we could afford, but the data is still woefully lacking." The Vulcan stares at the hypo, expression troubled. "From what I have heard, we don't have much time left."

"No." Bones shakes his head, fingers suddenly sweat-slicked around the hypo. "Not much time at all. Jim first?"

"As loath as I am to use the captain as our first test subject… yes, I believe he would approve."

It's really too simple, after all the hellish hours that have gone before. Jim's still reeling from their latest attempt at sedation, too out of it to do much more than bear his teeth in a feral snarl at his first officer. The injection is over before Jim even acknowledges it's begun.

The captain's readings stabilize within ten minutes, and all of the landing party are injected before fifteen minutes have passed. It's a good six hours before appreciable signs of improvement are noted, though, after which everyone else suspected of being potential carriers is injected, too.

"It was staring us in the face all along, Doctor." Spock sounds tired as he settles down into the chair next to McCoy. His clothing is actually wrinkled, indicating to Bones that the Vulcan is way beyond exhaustion. "The natives weren't lying when they said they had no records of disease of that sort. They were immune to it. Their abnormally low concentrations of serotonin-like neurotransmitters, their exceptionally thick blood-brain barrier… they protect them from neuronal colonization."

"What happens when a prion, a virus and a hemoglobin molecule have an orgy?" McCoy can't help a small laugh at the look Spock gives him. "Friend Torture Vironglobin, that's what."

"A poor naming choice and a very crude analogy, Doctor." The Vulcan shakes his head. "This is a whole new classification of micro-organism, if not of life itself."

"Oh, we don't plan on leaving it alive for very long, so let's not worry about it."

"Doctor, I believe you have been awake for the better part of sixty hours now." The Vulcan's face appears to be troubled, but that might just be the slight haziness to McCoy's vision. "I would suggest you rest."

Bones shakes his head, struggling to coordinate his limbs enough to stand back up. "Not yet. Still have patients to check on. Need to see how Jim and Chekov and Sulu—"

The Vulcan's fingers are gentle but firm as they dig through the tight bundles of muscle surrounding McCoy's neck. For one confused moment Bones thinks the Vulcan may have finally lost it, but the first officer gives one hell of a massage, and he finds himself leaning into the touch.

Then the darkness of unconsciousness starts to fall, and his last thought is that he's going to shoot the green-blooded bastard.

It's Spock's hand shaking his shoulder that wakes him up. The Vulcan still looks exhausted, perhaps even more so than before, and that's the only reason McCoy refrains from punching him.

"You nerve pinched me. You son-of-a—"

"Jim is waking up. I thought you would want to be conscious for this."

The brief bit of sleep—barely two hours' worth, if his watch is right—helped clear his head, and Bones can feel the adrenaline surge through his body yet again. Jim's waking up.

Actually Jim, himself, coherent, able to shake this whole mess off like a bad dream?

Or something else? How late was too late? Was any of the neural damage permanent? Any of the personality changes irreversible?

How many of their patients had they saved, and how many were already damned?

He doesn't say anything to Spock. He doesn't need to. He can tell from the expression on Spock's face and the way the Vulcan holds himself that his thoughts are along the same lines.

Bones tries not to hover over the bed as Jim shifts restlessly. Minutes that seem like hours drag by before the man finally blinks his eyes open, staring around the room in confusion.

"Jim." McCoy brushes his fingers over his captain's hand, carefully avoiding touching the restraints that still hold him to the bed. "How're you feeling?"

"I don't… Bones, I was having one hell of a nightmare—" Jim's blue eyes track quickly around the room, taking in the monitor and the restraints as well as Spock and McCoy. "That was all real. I can't… Spock, I'm sorry—"

Jim doesn't get any further because McCoy's hitting the quick release on the restraints, throwing them off as fast as he can. He doesn't have the patience to finish removing them all, so he settles for freeing Jim's upper body. It's enough so he can draw the man into a sitting position, wrap his arms around him, and thoroughly convince himself that this is really happening.

Jim only hesitates for a moment before returning the embrace. Bones tries hard not to pay any attention to the brief image of Jim's hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing that flashes through his mind.

"It's okay, Bones. It's okay. I'm okay. See? Perfectly one-hundred-percent okay." Jim's voice is gentle, soothing, and dripping with worry.

Which isn't the way it's supposed to be. "Don't you talk down to me, James Kirk. You have no idea…"

Bones has a whole rant lined up to follow the admonition, but he can't quite get it past the lump in his throat.

Everything turned out all right. Against all the odds, it turned out all right.

"Sir…" Chekov's accent makes his voice instantly recognizable.

McCoy carefully releases his hold on Jim, keeping one hand on his captain's shoulder, a different rant about idiot patients who don't know when to stay in their beds already forming in his mind.

The young man—not a boy, not after what he went through and what he did—stands determinedly in the doorway. His feet are planted apart, his balance still shaky, but his head is held defiantly high.

"I want to see Sulu."

And McCoy hates himself a little bit for forgetting, even temporarily, that for some of them, the nightmare's barely begun.

_Concluded in Five: Sulu_


	5. Sulu

**Disclaimer:** I love them, old and new, but I don't own them.

**Warnings:** There isn't much disturbing medical description in this chapter, but there is talk of torture and a brief discussion of sexuality. If mention of homosexuality or bisexuality disturbs you, there is a small bit of this chapter that may not be for you.

_The People He Sees_

_Five: Sulu_

"You should see him."

"No."

McCoy stares down at his patient. Sulu sits in the far corner of his isolation room, knees drawn up, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He's in his uniform pants and black undershirt, but he's left his gold tunic folded neatly on the end of the bed.

It's tempting to say he's huddling in the corner, but that's not quite the right word. Bones has seen huddling in the last twenty-four hours. Jordan's still huddled in the corner of his room, and Anders alternates between huddling in her bed and trying to find new and creative ways to kill herself.

No, what Sulu's doing isn't huddling. It's too… tame. Too controlled.

Which doesn't make it any less frustrating. He'd come to see Sulu because the man was being calm, being reasonable, and he'd incorrectly assumed that would make things easier.

How do you talk someone out of reasonably, calmly hating themselves?

Bones settles down on the edge of Sulu's bed, continuing to stare at the obstinate man. He tries waiting for Sulu to break the silence between them, hoping the man will find being stared down on intimidating, but he doesn't have the patience to outlast him.

"Damn it, _why_?"

Sulu just stares up at him, head tilted slightly to one side, expression stating very clearly that McCoy shouldn't even have to ask that question.

"He _wants_ to see you, though." Drawing a slow breath, Bones releases it evenly. He's finally finagled enough sleep that he's capable of controlling his temper, but his nerves are still worn and shot from the hellish days that came before. Still, yelling at the traumatized man is unlikely to get the desired response. "He understands what happened and he wants to see you."

"He shouldn't." Sulu's voice is blunt, crisp. "Doc, unless he wants to come hit me, I don't want to see him."

"It wasn't your fault. You weren't in control of yourself." They're his favorite words today, words he's been repeating over and over to the members of the landing party. They've started to sound hollow and untrue, not because they are but because they don't help.

"I tortured him and I nearly killed him." Sulu meets McCoy's gaze evenly. "I remember it all. Every second of it. I can't…"

Sulu's voice cracks and he turns away. For the first time his hands are trembling.

Bones watches, because it seems to be all he can do. He doesn't know what to say or what to point out or how the hell to help these people. They covered basic space psychology during third year at the Academy. Nothing in there prepared him to deal with something like this, though. The closest they came was a single class on helping crewmen who had been influenced by telepaths.

There isn't anyone to blame here, though. No outside force directing their actions. No enemy to rally together against. Just an alien microbe, brainless, directionless, short-circuiting their mental processes in the most horrifying way possible, and five broken people trying to live with the results.

It's not right. It's not _fair_, and though he's far too old to expect the universe to be fair, it still hurts.

"How long do you plan on punishing yourself?" The question comes out sharper than he'd intended, his frustration with the situation leeching into his voice.

Sulu doesn't answer, still sitting calmly in his corner, face turned slightly away.

"Yeah, well, at least tell me when you decide to commit hara-kiri, all right?"

Annoyance tinges both Sulu's expression and tone as he looks directly at McCoy again. "I'm from San Francisco, doc. If I want to commit ritual suicide, I'll jump off a bridge."

"I'm from Mississippi and I know what hara-kiri is, so assuming you do too isn't being culturally insensitive." It is, maybe, a little bit, but at least he got an emotional response other than self-loathing out of the man. "And please don't jump off any bridges. Starfleet has us dissect the bodies from the bay in Academy, and I can guarantee it's not worth it."

Sulu sighs, and Bones would almost swear the man rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to kill myself. That wouldn't be fair."

"Now we're talking." McCoy narrows his eyes, taking in the subdued expression on Sulu's face. "Except for the part where you're thinking it wouldn't be fair to Chekov but would be entirely fair to you."

"I nearly killed him. I _tortured_ him for _six hours!_" The agony in Sulu's expression as he runs his hands through his hair is almost too painful to watch, but McCoy forces himself not to look away. "I knew who he was. I knew he was my friend, and I still…"

"You couldn't make the mental connection that what you were doing was wrong. You physically couldn't. You were driven to savagery. The smallest slight or insult or misplaced step could have set you off. Once it progressed far enough, just the presence of another person could have set you off. The violence felt good, and once you started you couldn't stop. You literally couldn't. The disease disrupted the neurophysiological processes that would have allowed you to." Forcing intimate physical contact—it wouldn't have been a bad way to spread itself from host to host.

Except for the fact that humans had no innate immunity to it, meaning contact of bodily fluids probably wasn't even necessary.

Except for the fact that humans could still think for just a little bit too long, killing the next host before infection could be a problem.

Damn evolution and damn aberrant hosts and damn biology in general.

Sulu's staring up at him still, black hair mussed, jaw stubbornly set. There must be an officer's class spent on mastering that look, because they all know how to do it.

Bones meets the man's eyes squarely, speaking slowly, clearly. "You didn't kill him. It wasn't you who tortured him. You even gave him an analgesic."

"Which nearly killed him." Sulu rubs at the back of his neck, shaking his head. "And I didn't give him the trip-seed because it was an analgesic. I didn't even intend for him to eat it. You want to know how he got it?"

He doesn't, probably, but McCoy nods anyway, keeping his expression neutral.

"I thought it looked good." Sulu bites down hard on his lip for a second. "I thought it looked _amazing_. I had to gag him, so he wouldn't scream and stop the fun, but it didn't look right. Too black. So I added some color. Because it looked… good."

Sulu's head droops as he says the last word, his gaze sliding down to the ground.

"Sulu…" Finding the right words doesn't seem possible, so McCoy just talks. "God, it wasn't you. It wasn't anything you wanted. It wasn't anything you planned."

The pilot's shoulders hunch, his hands tightening their hold on his knees.

McCoy tries not to let the sudden queasiness he feels show on his face. "Was it something you wanted?"

"No!" The veneer of control cracks as Sulu looks up at him again. Desperation and terror vie for control of the man's features. "I didn't. I didn't want to hurt him. But I have… the roses, the trip-seed flowers, I thought… I've thought… that he'd look good…"

Oh.

Oh, hell.

"Doc, you keep saying it wasn't me, it wasn't me, but it _was_ me." Rocking forward so that he's balanced on his hands and knees, Sulu stares up at McCoy. "It was me. Plants. Swords. The flowers, the designs, it was all me. I can't—"

"Stop." Sliding off the bed to sit at eye level with his patient, Bones reaches out a hand and tentatively sets it on the officer's shoulder. "It wasn't you. Of course the… little touches were yours. It was your nervous system. But you weren't in control any more. You were a captive in your own mind. I've read your file, seen all your psych profiles, and you're right. Torturing a lover to—"

"He's seventeen, doc."

Bones stubbornly refuses to blush despite the look Sulu's giving him. "Eighteen. He's eighteen, and he's not a—" McCoy considers trying to wrap his tongue around the Russian word Chekov had thrown at him multiple times in the last two days and decides it's not worth further embarrassing himself. "He's not a child."

"I know that." Sulu almost smiles. "He's a Starfleet officer."

Bones waits for Sulu to continue, hoping maybe this will break them out of the guilty-not-guilty cycle they've gotten stuck in, but the man simply stares across the room. The almost-smile is still on his face, though. "You're fond of him."

Sulu shrugs, leaning back up against the wall. "He's smart. A genius, when it comes to math and science and tech. And he's not shy, you know, but he's… awkward, sometimes. Being so much younger than the rest of us."

McCoy can't help a snort of laughter. "Oh, yes, infinitely younger than the rest of you. What are you, an ancient twenty-four?"

"Hey, we can't all be old guys in our thirties." For an instant Sulu legitimately smiles, a full-fledged grin, though the expression's gone as quickly as it came.

"So… you're interested in Chekov but haven't done anything because he's seventeen?" It's not prying. It's a medically relevant question, to figure out exactly how much more miserable this mess is going to get. There's no need for embarrassment, and damn the social conventions that make this awkward. "Didn't you pick up a girl on our last mission, though?"

"It's called bisexuality, doc." The conversation seems to be entertaining Sulu, if nothing else, another small smile playing about his face. "It's the twenty-third century. I thought the general stance was everyone's at least a little bi."

"Actually, last time I checked the stance was that human sexuality is incredibly complicated, sometimes fluid, certainly influenced by environment, and we really don't want to even start guessing at what introduction to alien cultures and alien genders is going to do to it."

"Uh huh." Sulu nods, still smiling slightly. "Everyone's a little bi is a lot easier to say."

If Bones had known all he had to do was embarrass himself to help his patients, the last twenty-four hours would have gone much better.

The moment of levity passes far too quickly, though, Sulu's smile fading as he pulls his knees up and rests his elbows on them again. "I like working with Chekov. He's competent, he doesn't break under pressure, and when we're not under pressure… he knows not to laugh on the bridge."

Bones tries and fails to make sense of the sentence, leaning back to use the edge of the bed as a backrest. "Come again?"

"When we're on bridge duty… a lot of times we draw shift with the captain and Commander Spock and Lieutenant Uhura. I don't know how much you've heard about the three of them, but they…" Sulu considers for a moment. "It's not debating and it's not teasing. Somewhere in between, maybe, but you've got to be there to really understand. They have the most bizarre, convoluted conversations ever. They're usually hilarious. Sometime they even manage deep. You can't laugh, though, or Commander Spock stops… playing along, I guess. Chekov gets that. When we're on the bridge, we just look at each other. We can laugh later, when it won't disrupt the game."

Bones understands perfectly. He's been the third point in the triangle, though the game's as much about teasing Jim as it is about teasing Spock. He's even been in on the banter on the bridge, after a mission gone wrong goes back right.

He's never thought about what it might look like to the rest of the crew, though.

Shaking his head, Sulu stares up at the ceiling. "I can't go back there. I can't face him. I can't pretend nothing happened and just… I mean… He's going to be scarred, isn't he?"

It's tempting to bend the truth, to say the things that will make Sulu feel better, but that won't help in the long run. "Lightly. We did the best he could, but over his chest and abdomen he'll have some light scarring."

"Do you really think he's going to want to sit for eight hours a day next to the guy who permanently scarred him?" Sulu answers his own question, shaking his head. "No. I appreciate the fact that you and Spock cured us. And I can never express how grateful I am you saved him. But I think this is it. I'm out. Starfleet doesn't need—"

"Bull. Starfleet needs all the good officers she can get, and you're a damned good one." Bones resists the urge to rub at his eyes. "You can't make snap decisions like that after something like this, anyway. You've put a lot of time and effort into Starfleet. You don't just want to give it up."

"No. I don't." Sulu studies the floor this time, head low, keeping McCoy from seeing most of his features. "I don't want to leave, and I know I can't stay. And I know what you're going to say. It's not my fault. But it is, partially. I need some time to think, all right?"

Bones studies the man for a moment before nodding and standing up. He hasn't done what he came to do. But he's done all that he can.

It's not enough. He knows it, as he walks out the door, trying to decide which of his patients to see next. He just doesn't have the background knowledge to help these people, though they need it badly.

Maybe if he'd been able to stay at Academy for that fourth year. Take the advanced psych courses. Stay for the extra year after that, complete a thesis, one of the various ideas he'd been toying with involving fear and camaraderie and high-stress situations. Maybe then he'd know what to say and how to say it to make the landing party understand that they were victims, too.

But there hadn't been time to complete his training, there hadn't been time to take extra classes, and there certainly hadn't been time to consider thesis work. Starfleet was short on people, and Jim had a starship and needed a crew.

Jim's leaning against the wall between Sulu's room and Jordan's. He's in full uniform, the only one of the landing party to have taken all the proffered clothing, and he looks good. Great. No one would suspect that thirty-six hours ago he'd been at death's door, trying with all his might to drag others along with him.

"Bones." Jim falls into step with him. "I want to see Sulu."

"Sulu doesn't want to see anyone." Checking the latest scans on all of the landing party, McCoy works his way down the isolation corridor. None of the landing party needs to be isolated anymore, but the individual rooms afford them privacy as they try to come to terms with what they did. They also allow for quick medical responses if needed, and McCoy hates the fact that it's been needed.

"I want to see him." Jim's expression is set, stubborn, that damned officer's glare that Bones is learning to hate. "I'm not letting him drop out of Starfleet."

"You listened in on our conversation?" McCoy stops dead in his tracks. "Jim, that's—"

"I didn't listen in. I was going to use the com to call you out. It was the only thing I heard. I swear. My ethics aren't that bad." Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Jim slides around to stand in front of McCoy. "I assume you told him no. I'd like to try to talk him out of it, too."

"He's not really going to drop out of Starfleet. He's just…" There isn't a word to properly sum up what Sulu is. Exhausted, certainly, like the rest of the _Enterprise's_ crew. Disheartened, humiliated, ashamed, tormented, guilt-ridden, all of those could probably find some use, as well.

Jim nods. "I know what he is. Better than just about anyone, I know what they've all gone through. What could it hurt, Bones?"

It could hurt a lot. The landing party were all mentally fragile right now, and Jim pushing in the wrong direction could snap someone.

On the other hand…

If there's anyone who can make miracles happen, it's Jim. Bones sighs, walking around his friend. "I'll ask Sulu. And if he says yes I'll watch to make sure no one ends up hurt."

"I'll do you one better. You can listen, and if I'm stepping out of line you can step in."

"This isn't a joke, Jim."

"I know, Bones." Grim determination suddenly fills Jim's tone and face.

McCoy blinks. "All right. Fine."

Returning to Sulu's room, he uses the com system to announce his presence. "Sulu, the captain was wondering if he could talk to you for a moment."

After nearly a full minute Sulu raises his head from his arms enough to nod.

The door slides open, and Jim steps forward just enough to keep it open. "Sulu, mind if the doctor watches and listens? He wants to make sure I'm not up to something dangerous."

"That's fine, sir." Sulu sits up a little straighter, though otherwise his position doesn't change much.

McCoy starts to follow Kirk into the room, but the captain waves him back with a simple gesture. Grumbling to himself, McCoy hits the com button and goes to stand outside the window.

Jim settles down on the ground next to his navigator, mimicking the other man's position almost perfectly. The two men stare at a point on the ground, though Sulu's eyes occasionally flick over to scan his captain.

It's Sulu who breaks the silence first. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"I did. I see you haven't put your uniform on."

Silence stretches taut again before Sulu answers. "No, sir. I've been considering resigning my commission. I don't feel that—"

"It's not what you did that you hate, it's how you felt while you did it."

Sulu's face pales, his body stiffening.

"I know." Jim's voice is soft, barely registering over the com. "Believe me, I know."

"With all due respect, sir." There's a hard edge to Sulu's voice that makes it debatable how much respect he thinks that is. "I don't think you do. You didn't hurt anyone."

"No. Not for lack of trying, but you're right. I didn't actually hurt anyone." Jim shrugs. "But I wanted to. Badly. Thinking about hurting someone was the most intense and pleasurable experience I have ever had in my life. I had it all planned out. And I know he's going to see it someday."

"Sir?"

"You know about the whole alternate reality thing? And that I met an old version of Spock?" Jim allows his head to settle down on his hands, a wry, sad quirk to his smile. "He mind melded with me. There was a lot of information there, but one thing I definitely saw clearly is that Spock and I are going to end up melding multiple times. It's inevitable that one of those times he's going to see what I had planned."

"Sir, I don't—"

"I didn't hate him. I felt just like I normally do towards him. But it was wrong, him sitting in my chair, and I had to teach him a lesson. A long lesson. I'd start by punching him a few dozen times. Break his nose, crack a few ribs, nothing too brutal. Then I'd cut those damned ears of his so he wouldn't look so alien. I'd lick the blood off the knife, lick it out of the wounds, and then—"

"Sir, please." Sulu leans away from his captain, back pressed hard against the wall, knees pulled tight against his chest.

Bones starts for the door, planning on ending the conversation, because Jim's making things worse. He doesn't need anyone else huddling in the corner and wailing.

"I hate it."

The self-loathing in Jim's voice stops Bones in his tracks. That can't be right. Jim's been doing so _well_, taking everything so calmly and in stride, and he can't—

"I hate the fact that I planned anything like that. I hate the fact that I meticulously plotted out the details. I hate the fact that I _enjoyed_ it, every moment of it, without a single thought that maybe it was wrong. That a friend shouldn't be thought of as an art board, a toy to be taken apart, a means to get at blood."

"I… understand, sir." Sulu's voice is calmer but hesitant, and the emotion in it could almost be… well, hell, who's supposedly comforting who in there? "I can handle what I did. It's horrible. I'll have nightmares about it for a long time. But I can handle that. The way I felt, though… that I wish I could forget. Need to forget. I wish I could just replace it with loathing, with horror, with everything I feel now and should have felt then."

"But we can't." Jim's voice is steady again, resolute. "_We_ can't forget. But we can let _them_ forget. We can apologize and we can go back to our jobs and we can do our best to act like it didn't happen. Like it wasn't us. That's what they keep saying, right? That it wasn't us? So we make it true."

"I don't think it'll be that easy, sir."

"Maybe not. But we can try." There's a distinctive clap that can only be Jim slapping his officer on the shoulder. "We were rabid dogs, Mr. Sulu. We bit at the people closest to us simply because they had the gall to be there. They understand that—Chekov certainly understands that. He went through it, too. Let's try and help him forget it, all right?"

Bones retreats away from the door, thumbing the com system off. He's barely finished when Jim comes through, a slight smile on his face.

McCoy glares at him. "Captain, I'm not really sure that trying to ignore the problem is the proper psychological advice."

"Not ignore the problem, Bones. Find a way to dissociate it from our lives. Because it wasn't us… but it was. And that paradox is hell." Jim leans against the wall, smile fading. "If it's not what he needs, then you'll find another way to help him. But I know him. Believe me, I wouldn't try a stunt like that on someone I don't know."

Studying his friend, Bones finds himself somewhat taken aback by what he sees.

He's never considered Jim to be a child. Jim's young, but if he's ever been innocent and naïve, it was long before McCoy met him. Cocky, arrogant, brash, obnoxious, sometimes annoying, those are all things Jim can be. A teenager, though he's a bit old for the appelation. A kid.

But McCoy doesn't see any of that in the man standing across from him in the hall. The man with him now is firm, steady, indomitable but cautious about choosing his battles. He wears his Starfleet uniform well, proudly, but not vainly.

"Bones?" Jim's smile is still the same as always, teasing, light. "See something… fascinating?"

"Yeah." Bones sighs, returning a half-smile. "Somewhere along the line my best friend became a damn good starship captain. I was trying to figure out when."

Jim laughs, smile growing, image of the dour captain falling away as if it had never been. "C'mon, Bones. You know I was born this way."

McCoy is saved from answering by the door to Sulu's isolation room sliding open again.

Sulu stands awkwardly in the doorway, his gold tunic catching the light. "Doc… if he's still around… I'd like to see Chekov."

It's not a big victory. It doesn't necessarily mean that Sulu's doing better. It has no bearing at all on what Bones is going to do with his other patients.

It doesn't mean everything's going to be all right.

Still, at that moment, they're the sweetest words McCoy has ever heard.


	6. Uhura

**Disclaimer:** I still love them, but I don't own them.

**Warnings:** There's some pretty graphic medical description of injuries given, but nothing that should be too traumatizing if you've come this far! There is also some romance in this.

**Author's Notes:** I just wanted to thank all of you who have reviewed so far! You guys are awesome, and make this totally worth it. To answer a few questions, there will definitely be at least two more parts to this, with the two officers I haven't featured yet each getting a chance to shine. There may also be a follow-up chapter to this one, resolving a few somewhat unresolved things, but my beta and I haven't quite decided yet.

_The People He Sees_

_Six: Uhura_

He loses his sixth patient because Jim can't keep the damn ship still.

Granted, they're in the middle of a firefight that's been going on for what feels like hours, but a head's up when they're going to be flung from one end of the room to the other would be nice. Maybe then he wouldn't be digging through a spattered pool of blood trying to repair a severed subclavian artery that had, a few seconds ago, only been a weakened subclavian.

"Doctor, that's five minutes with no heart beat. Neural impulses drastically reduced…" Christine shakes her head. "Absent. All neural activity has ceased. Call it?"

"Damn it. Damn it damn it _damn it_." McCoy continues to prod at the gaping wound in the tech's chest for a second more. It gives him a needed moment to regain his mental equilibrium, to vent his frustration through curses rather than by stabbing his instruments into the dead girl's chest or flinging them across the room. "Called. Time of death… whatever the hell time it is now. What else do we have?"

Stripping off his dirtied gloves and face mask, McCoy stalks over to Cath, surveying the room as he does. The medical bay is nearly at capacity. All but two or three beds are full. Covered stretchers line one wall, the dead shoved out of the way temporarily so they can help the living. Those who aren't too badly injured line the other walls, most huddled together. Some are coughing; some are crying; a handful are screaming, aching, terrified wails that have nothing to do with physical injury.

Not many, though. Not compared to last time things were this bad, when the _Narada _gutted their ship and their morale in less than a minute. The _Enterprise_ has been through too much since then, her people too vigorously tested to break that easily.

Another shudder runs through the ship, a hideous grinding noise and shaking sensation that leaves him breathless. Gravity cuts out and then cuts back in, sending his people staggering, earning cries of pain from some of their patients.

"Damn it, Jim."

As if on cue the com system springs to life. The voice that comes through is ragged, choked, barely discernable through a wave of static. "Medical, zis is… bridge. Request…"

Bones doesn't waste any time punching up a connection. "Medical to bridge. Chekov, is that you? What the hell—"

"Doctor McCoy." Spock, of course, sounds perfectly cool and collected. "We have four men down with severe injuries and others wounded. Power to the turbolift seems to have been compromised. You'll have to use emergency access."

"Spock, I'm a little busy down here. If you didn't notice, you've gotten us blown to—"

"They need medical attention to be stable for transport. One of the injured is the captain." Spock's words are sharp, each word perfectly enunciated, nearly clipped. "Send whoever you think most fit."

The connection to the bridge cuts off abruptly, sharply, and McCoy looses a string of oaths concerning Vulcans and hybrids and bastard officers in general. Of course Jim's one of the injured. Of course he's got to decide whether to go there, where a doctor's needed, or stay here, where _he's_ needed.

"Raya! Sanri!"

Both of the other doctors straighten from their positions over patients and look at him, listening intently for orders. They're on opposite ends of the room, and this isn't a conversation he wants to have at a shout.

It's not a conversation he _should_ have. He's the CMO. It's his decision.

And much as he might regret it later, he can't send someone else up there. If Jim's going to die… if any of Jim's hand-picked officers that McCoy has gotten far too close to over the past year and a half are going to die… he wants to know he's done everything he possibly could to save them.

"Raya." He doesn't reach out to touch the woman, to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly. He can't, not when she's in surgical garb, though he wants to. "Trouble on the bridge. I'm taking two of our nurses, a kit and some stretchers. I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep things running here until then?"

The woman nods. Her onyx eyes have widened slightly, the fingers of her right hand spreading in a gesture of surprise or fear, but she doesn't voice any complaint.

It takes less than a minute to gather supplies and people. He doesn't take Christine or Cath, much as he wants to. They're both competent leaders, and he needs to leave his competent leaders behind if he's going.

Bones pauses for just a second at the door, a large part of him wanting to turn back, but a stronger need impels him forward.

He told Scotty once that the senior officers shouldn't be indispensable. Hopefully he's managed to make that true.

Getting to the bridge is like taking a walk through Hell. Smoke floats at the top of most corridors, the air filters working overtime to try to clear it and mainly just succeeding in blowing it around. Power to some sections is gone entirely, only the red emergency back-up lights providing enough illumination to see by.

The turbolift to the bridge is definitely down, the doors hanging open on a black pit. Trying to evacuate wounded through the emergency access system is going to be a nightmare, especially if they're as badly hurt as the damn Vulcan insinuated.

Finally crawling out onto the bridge, Bones finds himself frozen in place for a second by what he sees.

Half the consoles are dead—or worse, sparking, throwing up arcs of electricity, looking to ground themselves through some unlucky person. Black, cloying smoke fills the air, seeps into his lungs, causes tears to form in his eyes. Half the ceiling seems to have come down, crushing a handful of consoles and splitting the command chair into two battered sections. Only the emergency lights are working, casting a blood-red pall over everything, making it even harder to see.

Gary taps his ankle, and McCoy pulls himself together. Sliding forward on hands and knees, Bones tries to both stay below the smoke and identify his patients. They're not hard to find. Four inert bodies are laid out in a neat row at the back of the bridge, near the intact turbolift doors.

The first is one of Scotty's men. He doesn't recognize the boy, but that's not surprising given that his chest and face are covered in second and third degree burns. A quick scan indicates no life-signs, and Bones gestures for Gary to double-check his readings and do a manual check for pulses while he moves on to the next patient.

Jim's next, and the entire left side of his face is a sheet of blood. A deep scalp wound runs from two inches above his temple to below his ear, which is partially torn away. That's not the frightening part, though—not immediately. Subdural hematoma could certainly kill him, and a fractured skull never did anyone any good, but the more immediate problem is the shattered collarbone and first four ribs on his left side. Bone splinters riddle the captain's left lung, which is already mostly filled with blood.

McCoy takes a deep breath, which escapes as a gasping, hacking cough. He needs to be calm. Get people stable, get them strapped into stretchers, then figure out how the hell to get the stretchers off the bridge. Then go back down to medical, handle whatever crises have arisen there in his absence, spend a few hours in surgery, make sure all his people are all right.

Then, much later, find somewhere to drink and scream, because Jim's blood is all over his gloves and pooling on the floor and drowning Jim and quite probably smothering Jim's sharp mind.

McCoy's hands work well, work quickly despite the fact that he's biting down on a panic attack, and he's got the hypo ready before he's even consciously reached for it. He double-checks the medications and the dosage before administering it.

He can't wait and see if it works because there're two other people who need his attention. That's why he brought help.

It still hurts to pull himself away from Jim's side.

Stripping off his gloves and grabbing fresh ones, he hunkers down by his next patient, Uhura. She doesn't look too bad until he turns the scanner on her. She could almost be sleeping, head lolling gently to the side, hands resting palms-down on the floor.

But with the scanner he can trace second- and third-degree burns from her right hand through her arm, through her chest, through her abdomen, and down her right leg. He doesn't look up at the electricity still arcing from various consoles. He doesn't want to see it, pretty, bright, searing his eyes and leaving trails.

There's not really a good way to guess at the peripheral nerve damage caused by the electricity, though there's bound to be some. He spares the few seconds to look up the interactions between burn medication and neuroprotectants, making the best guess he can.

The last girl laid out is in a blue tunic, but he can't for the life of him remember whether she's one of his or one of Spock's. Either way, she's lucky. A compound fracture of the femur is nasty, and she's going to hate the rehab, but she's definitely going to _make_ it to rehab.

The ship shudders again as another round of shots find their target. Debris patters down from the ceiling in a fine rain, and McCoy finds himself leaning protectively over the girl, eyes drawn to the action at the center of the bridge.

Spock doesn't pace. He stands perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the view-screen. The image is fuzzy and jumpy, but Bones can still make out the Romulan ship that's been doing a damn fine job of tearing the _Enterprise_ and her crew apart.

"Mr. Chekov, the targeting control—"

Chekov's voice comes from beneath his station. "Almost done, Mr. Spock, almost done."

Spock nods, though there's no possible way Chekov could see. "Mr. Sulu, you have the location that Lieutenant Uhura announced?"

"I do, sir." Sulu's voice is steady, though he holds his right arm awkwardly against his side.

"Done, sir!" Chekov crawls back into his chair, wiping sweat and blood from his eyes with his uniform sleeve. It's obvious from the condition of the fabric that it's not the first time he's done it.

"Lock all phaser banks on target, Mr. Chekov."

Sulu and Chekov exchange glances before both turn to look at their first officer, and Bones knows he's missing something.

It's Sulu who speaks, his question soft, tentative. "Are you sure, sir?"

For the first time Spock moves, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes are black pits, his skin reflecting the red light eerily, and McCoy shudders involuntarily. In the black smoke, in the bloody lighting, in the spark and wheeze of the injured ship, standing so eerily still, the Vulcan seems more god-of-war than paragon-of-logic.

"Fire."

Spock whispers the word, still looking at McCoy… or, rather, at the two people next to McCoy.

There's no sound as the Romulan ship disintegrates, fires exploding outward and vanishing as the vacuum of space placidly consumes the hard-won environment. Spock turns back to the viewscreen to watch, position barely changed.

Chekov and Sulu sag in their seats, more weariness than exhilaration in their postures. When the last flicker of flame dies down, Chekov turns to look at Spock, again wiping blood from his forehead. "Shall I announce wictory, sir?"

The Vulcan nods. "Contact Mr. Scott first and get a damage report. Then give a general announcement."

"Then get down to medical and get yourselves checked out. All of you." McCoy glares at the back of his first officer's head, hoping to make an impression. "I have no idea how the hell things got so messed up in here, but—"

"See to the patients you have, Doctor. Chekov and Sulu will be down for examination as soon as replacements can be found." Spock doesn't even deign to turn and look at McCoy. "Once it is certain the ship is in no danger, I shall be down as well."

"And we'll all be infinitely grateful that you managed to grace us with your presence." Bones bites out the words, helping to strap Uhura onto one of the stretchers. "If you pass out up here from smoke inhalation, I'll leave your green-blooded—"

"I will be careful, Doctor."

There's something off about the Vulcan, something wrong in the quiet way he's talking and the stiff way he's standing, but McCoy doesn't have time to figure out what. He's got two patients who are barely stable with him and who knows how many more down in sick bay. "You better be careful, Spock. Jim'll never forgive you if anything happens."

The Vulcan doesn't respond, which is an oddity, and McCoy wishes he had time to figure out what the hell is happening.

Later.

So many things to do later.

For now, it's better to let the doctor take over.

Getting their patients down to open, functioning corridors and turbolifts turns out not to be quite the problem he expected it to be. Gravity cuts out again for a good ten minutes, though the rest of the life support system seems to be doing fine. They've all been trained in how to work in low- and no-gravity environments, but it still takes a bit of work to remember how to move, especially with stretchers in tow. They make it down to sick bay without too many accidents, though, and certainly nothing dangerous.

Possibly because he yelled like the devil any time they came close to knocking Jim's head against something.

He doesn't get to help with further treatment of the injured officers because there're too many people in worse shape. Raya's handled the triage well, but there are simply too many wounded, not enough beds, and certainly not enough doctors. Bones goes through three emergency surgeries in the first hour, cursing every time gravity cuts out. He goes through five in the second hour, when at least the gravity is stable, and simply stops counting after that. He barely has time to change gowns between patients, leaving as much of the routine work to his nurses as he can manage. He doesn't ask how they're holding up, how they're managing to do their own work as well as everything the doctors need them to do.

They're his people, and they do what he's taught them to do. He'll reward them for it later. For now, their only repayment is the continued beating of a heart, the steady drawing of breaths that mean another life snatched away from death.

He doesn't know how long they work before he finally manages to sit down. He's done twelve surgeries. Nine of his patients are going to eventually walk away. One won't ever walk again, but she should make it.

The two he lost weren't due to any fault of his. There's no reason for it to hurt.

But if it didn't hurt, he wouldn't be who he is.

He closes his eyes, resting his head in his hands for a moment. He just needs a few seconds to regroup before finding out how Jim's doing, how Jim's officers are doing—

The scream that brings his head up is high-pitched, filled with agony, and he knows the woman's voice.

The cry stops as abruptly as it started, choked off to a brief whimper before fading entirely. It's not hard to trace where it came from, though. The worst of the crisis is over. Most of their patients, if not the exhausted medical staff, are coherent enough to look towards the sound.

Uhura sits very still on the table, breath coming in shallow, panting gasps. Sanri's already at her side, pulling up scans, but McCoy doesn't like the way he looks. Shaky, exhausted, swaying on his feet.

He pats the other doctor on the shoulder. "I've got this."

Sanri blinks up at him for a moment, bright blue eyes glazed. "Are you certain?"

"I'm certain. Go grab some sleep. We'll need people rested up for a relief team tonight." McCoy glances at the nearest clock, mind already focused on his patient's stats. "Well, tomorrow morning. In a few hours."

"Thank you." The sheer gratitude in the tall man's voice is nearly overwhelming.

"Get out of here." Bones doesn't watch the other doctor leave. Instead he tries to smile down at the woman on the bed.

Since she has her eyes squeezed tightly shut, it doesn't matter that his smile probably looks more like a grimace of exhaustion.

"Uhura? Can you talk to me?"

"Uh huh." The woman's voice is tight, though her muscles aren't. Possibly can't be, due to the damage caused by the electric flow.

For one panicked instant Bones can't remember whether he gave her mannitol and teramide to protect kidney function in the face of myoglobinemia from damaged muscle. The computer doesn't suffer from sleep deprivation, though, pulling up his entry from the bridge and reassuring him that he did everything right. "How are you feeling?"

Uhura's answer is quick, soft, and in a language he can't understand.

"I need you to—"

"It _hurts_." Her eyes open, fixing him with a furious glare.

"How badly? Scale of one to ten, one being mild discomfort, ten being the worst agony you can imagine."

Uhura considers, eyes closing again. "How about an eleven?"

"All right. Nurse, we need oxaliphine—"

Christine nods, appearing at his side as if by magic. Some of her blond hair has escaped its tight pony tail, frizzing out around her head, and dark patches etch the skin beneath her eyes. "Already calculating dosage, doctor."

Bones smiles gratefully at his head nurse, then turns back to his patient. "Before we give you pain medication, I need you to tell me what exactly hurts."

"Everything." Uhura opens her right eye, meeting his gaze directly. Her breathing is easier, slower. "My hands and feet especially, but pretty much everything."

That's not good. He tries to keep his concern off his face as he orders more precise scans. "All right. I'm going to do a more complete neurological work-up. As soon as I'm done we'll get you that pain medication, all right?"

"All right." Uhura nods, both eyes open now. A light sheen of sweat covers her skin, but the agony that had been etched into her face is fading.

"How's the pain now?"

"Still at an eleven." A brief smile flashes across the woman's face. "I'd appreciate you getting those tests done quickly."

"I will as soon as—nurse, what the hell are these?" McCoy points to a series of ten neurological scans that the computer helpfully displays for him. The first is from just after the _Enterprise_ shipped out, a standard part of the physical exam.

The other nine are not. They span eight months, starting two weeks after their mission began. And though the authorization code on them is his, he's never seen them before.

Christine blushes bright red, something he's never seen before, mouth opening and then closing without any sound emerging.

"If you're talking about the neuro scans, I asked her to do them for me." It's hard to peg the emotion in Uhura's voice—chagrin, amusement, resignation? "I also asked her to keep things as discrete as possible."

McCoy sets to work on his current scan, trying to keep his frustration in check. "I suppose you also asked her to interpret them, even though that's not part of her job description."

"It wasn't a difficult interpretation, Doctor." Christine's apparently found her voice. "We knew exactly what we were looking for."

"Well, how about enlightening me?" Growling out the words, McCoy skewers his head nurse with a glare.

She's been working with him too long, though, as she seems completely unaffected by the look. "We were watching for subtle changes in—"

"I was mind melding with a telepath on a fairly regular basis." Uhura shrugs. "I wanted to ensure that there weren't any unexpected side effects."

"And you felt you couldn't ask me because—?"

"Because I didn't know you." The woman draws in a ragged breath, closing her eyes again. It takes her only a second to regain her equilibrium, though. "Because Christine and I had talked before, and I trusted her. Because there's a certain… delicacy to the situation—"

"I don't care if you're screwing the first officer. I don't care—"

"Telepathy is not considered a form of sexual intercourse, _doctor_. Through the mind meld I was able to hone my linguistic skills, among other… things." Gritting her teeth together, Uhura squirms on the bed, hands clenched into fists.

"Stop moving. You're going to interfere with the scan." McCoy bites down hard on his anger. He can understand, almost, the desire to keep the proof of their closeness as concealed as possible. There aren't strict rules against fraternization in Starfleet, but it's still not exactly encouraged, and Uhura and Spock _have_ been relatively discrete about their relationship.

If it was a relationship. Jim's account of them kissing in the transporter room coupled with a handful of looks and touches were the only things he was basing the assumption on. The whole mind meld business could really be about business and linguistics. McCoy certainly wouldn't put it past the pointy-eared bastard to use something as exotic and fascinating as telepathy to teach languages.

The scan finally finishes, the computer pointing out all the variations in nerve function it found. "Part of the pain's due to the fact that you're fairly well baked on the right side of your body. The other part's peripheral nerve damage leading to neuropathy. Your body thinks it's registering pain even though there's no stimulus."

"You can fix it?" Uhura's tone is frightened, uncertain, something he's not used to hearing from her.

He smiles down at the younger officer, anger fizzling out. "We can fix it, but you're going to be out of commission for a while. There's muscle damage to your entire right side, and your liver really didn't appreciate being an electrical conductor. Thankfully there doesn't seem to be any cardiac involvement or central nervous system damage. So, basically, a long recovery, but most likely a full recovery."

"Good." Another sigh escapes as the woman's eyes drift closed. "Does that mean I can have that painkiller now?"

Bones gestures for Christine to proceed, waiting a few seconds for the medication to take effect. "What's the last thing you remember before you lost consciousness?"

"I didn't lose consciousness." Uhura's eyes open again, rage filling her face as she spits the words out. "I was rendered unconscious by my first officer."

"You were in agony." Spock's words are soft but startling. McCoy hadn't heard the Vulcan come up to them. "Your console was beyond repair. There was no need for you to—"

"We were fighting for our lives, Spock. We could have _died_ there." Uhura struggles to sit up on her elbows, her right arm refusing to bear any weight, finally settling on just raising her head. "If I'm going to die, I'd like to be conscious for it. I'd like to be able to see what happens. I'd like to be able to say _goodbye_ to people, you know, to my _friends_ who are fighting beside me. I'd like to say goodbye to _you_."

The hurt in the woman's voice is impossible to miss, the stung betrayal in her eyes evidently finding its mark as the Vulcan drops his eyes. His left hand rubs at the wrist of his bandaged right hand. "There was not time—"

"And I may have been in agony." Uhura swallows, voice softening. "But I was handling it. I could have been useful. _You_ taught me how to handle it. I've been using it here, and it works."

"Wait, what?" McCoy glares between the two… people. "Uhura, what exactly have you been doing?"

Spock raises his head, meeting McCoy's eyes. "There are Vulcan methods of coping with and handling immense pain. Lieutenant Uhura asked me to show them to her. Humans lack the mental discipline and aptitude to use them properly, though. The pain bleeds through. Their productivity is impaired—"

"Would you have done it to James?"

The bitterness in Uhura's question surprises McCoy. If it surprises Spock, he doesn't let it show.

"Would you have had the gall to do your little Vulcan neck pinch on your captain? I know Vulcan cultural history has some backwards ideas about women, but—"

"Vulcan cultural history has nothing to do with this." Spock turns his gaze back on the floor, avoiding the human's glare. "And speculation about how I would act with the captain is hardly relevant to this situation."

Uhura says something, again in a language McCoy can't understand. He's actually fairly certain human vocal chords shouldn't be able to make the sounds she is.

Spock replies in the same language, holding himself stiffly. His tone is perfectly neutral, perfectly calm, a harsh counterpoint to Uhura's emotional, almost lyrical retorts.

McCoy lets the conversation flow on above him, setting to work trying to derive the best medical regiment he can for his patient. Nerve damage is nothing to sneer at, even in this day and age. Choosing the right medications and the right doses is still as much art as it is science. Still, if he plays his cards right, he should be able to fix this.

Hopes he'll be able to fix this.

He doesn't notice the Vulcan leave. The conversation had become so much background chatter, the incomprehensible syllables fading from his awareness. It's only when Uhura tries to reach up with her right arm to wipe the tears off her face and instead succeeds in smacking herself in the forehead that he realizes they've stopped talking.

"Careful there." He gently moves the young woman's arm back down to lie at her side, carefully avoiding touching her bandaged, badly burned palm. He hesitates for a moment before reaching up to wipe the offending moisture from her face.

Uhura smiles, a sound that is part laughter and part sob escaping her lips. "I'm sorry. You've got to think I'm pathetic."

"No." McCoy shakes his head. Jim doesn't surround himself with pathetic people, and though Bones hasn't had much interaction with Uhura herself, what he has seen of the woman has impressed him. "You chased Spock away. That's always an impressive feat."

"I didn't…" Another laugh-sob comes from the young woman, and she sniffles. "He's stronger than me, he can multi-task on a level I'm physically incapable of, and he's a telepath. But I have to make him understand that I can still take care of myself. Even if it hurts like hell."

"If you're looking for relationship advice, you're really asking the wrong doctor." McCoy grabs a cloth and wipes again at his patient's tears before holding the material so she can blow her nose.

Uhura does, shaking her head and sniffling again afterwards. "Thanks. I hate this. I feel so pathetically weak."

"Having about thirty percent of your muscles flash-fried will do that to you." Bones smiles wryly, trying to be reassuring. "Don't worry. A few weeks of physical therapy, some well-placed cell growth stimulants, you won't even notice anything was wrong."

"How's everyone else doing?" With a final sniffle Uhura settles back down on the bed. "What about the Romulans?"

"Last update I had on Jim—on the captain said he was doing all right." He wasn't conscious, but he was alive and stable and despite how awful his head had looked his skull was actually relatively intact. Raya had also taken all the bone splinters out of his lung and done the best job she could of rebuilding his collarbone. "Chekov and Sulu checked out with relatively minor injuries—scalp lacerations, and Sulu banged his elbow up pretty bad. Casey will be joining you for rehabilitation thanks to a broken leg. Brent didn't make it."

"Brent was the engineer? Scotty's little kid?"

McCoy nods.

"Damn it. He's only been on the ship five weeks. That's not…" Uhura lifts her left hand to rub tiredly at her face. "And the Romulans?"

"We destroyed their ship. No survivors."

The look of horror that crosses Uhura's face certainly isn't the response Bones was expecting. "We _what_?"

"Destroyed their ship? Before they could destroy ours? I thought that's generally what you do in a space fight."

"That's not what our orders were. Who gave the command?" Her eyes track toward the med bay doors. "Oh, no. He didn't… _siyo_…"

"Oh no you don't. You are not standing up for at least another twenty-four hours, Lieutenant." McCoy leans over the bed and places a hand on both his patient's shoulders, surprised at the amount of force required to hold the suddenly agitated woman down. "Now, care to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Our mission was to capture the ship, or at least a handful of survivors, at whatever cost." Uhura's left hand grips his arm tightly, her right grasping feebly at the fabric of his shirt before falling back down. "They were spies. They have some kind of contact within Starfleet—someone important, someone high-ranked. How do you think they were able to do so much damage? How do you think they knew where to aim to wreak _that_ kind of havoc on the _bridge_?"

"They just about destroyed the _Enterprise_. We have forty-two confirmed dead, seventeen critical, twenty-one who will need to be discharged due to the severity of their injuries, ninety-five that we've had to treat for less severe injuries, and if there's a crewman around who doesn't have at least a bruise I don't know about him." Bones forces his hands to relax their hold on her shoulders. Trying to wrap his mind around the severity of the damage the crew has taken is difficult, and not something he's ready to do yet. "The ship's barely limping along as it is. We didn't have any choice. Starfleet will understand."

"I'm not so sure. You didn't hear their messages, Doctor. They're scared. They were very, very clear that no price was too big to pay for that ship. I gave him the coordinates so he'd know where _not _to shoot…" Uhura finally stops struggling, closing her eyes, a grimace of pain flashing across her face. "Will Scotty verify that the destruction of the Romulan vessel was necessary to save the ship?"

"I would be very surprised if he didn't." McCoy hasn't heard anything from the engineer since the battle started. The ship hasn't fallen apart, though, and those systems that had been compromised during the battle have been slowly coming back on-line. That most likely means Scotty's buried somewhere in the engines of the vessel, affecting emergency repairs and coming up with stop-gap measures to keep them space-worthy that Bones is very certain he doesn't want to know about.

"If Scotty verifies it… and the captain and Admiral Pike will be on Spock's side…" Uhura fixes him with a stricken gaze that makes her look far younger than he's used to seeing her. "They won't be able to do anything to him, right?"

"Between Jim, Pike and the pointy-eared bastard's I-am-smarter-than-you-illogical-humans stare?" Bones forces a chuckle, though the memory of Spock standing so still in that red light takes any true humor from the situation. "No jury in the universe'd be able to convict him. I'm sure of it."

"I think you're lying to me, but I appreciate the effort." A slight smile quirks the edges of Uhura's mouth. "_Mungu_… if I had known…"

"Would it have changed anything you had to say?" McCoy releases the woman, stepping back to monitor her stats.

Uhura considers the question for a moment before exhaling a long breath. "No. But I might have chosen a different language in which to do it."

"Why? What was wrong with the one you used?"

"We were speaking in Vulcan, Doctor." Uhura's smile turns sad. "It is a language he does not use lightly. And not one I use against him when he's already upset."

"I thought humans couldn't pronounce some of the Vulcan syllables." Bones frowns at the results of the blood scan and preps an additional hypo. Kidney function isn't critically impaired yet, but it's definitely taking a hit from the muscle breakdown products despite his preventative measures.

"We can pronounce most of them. There's a handful we can't, but it's possible to work around." Uhura turns her head helpfully when he bends down with the hypo. "The bigger problem is that our ears aren't sensitive enough to hear a lot of the nuances in their language. It's kind of like Chinese, only about a thousand times harder because we're physically incapable of hearing the differences. We can usually suss out main ideas, but holding a conversation in it would be downright embarrassing."

"So how…?"

"Mind meld, Doctor. I can hear with his ears." Uhura's left hand toys with the sheet on the bed, her eyes looking away from his. "I can learn to differentiate the sounds that way, perfect the physical means of producing them. It's… fascinating."

"Uh huh. I bet." McCoy fights the urge to roll his eyes. Spock maybe, just maybe, could have delivered that line without making it obvious how deep their relationship went.

Actually, on second thought, no. Not even a Vulcan could manage that.

"I'm going to have one of my nurses come over as soon as possible and get you something to drink as well as something light to eat. You are under strict orders not to move from this bed until I give you permission. Understand?"

"Aye, sir." Uhura salutes rather lazily, using her stronger left hand. "And sir… about the neuro scans. If it was now, I would have trusted you. You can be discrete. You're a good man."

McCoy nods, blaming the salute and the slight slur to Uhura's words on the painkillers. He'd actually almost forgotten about the scans. He makes a mental note to hunt down Christine later and ream her out for misusing his authorization code—though he's got a feeling, or at least a hope, that she'll say something similar to Uhura.

They didn't know him then. They didn't trust him.

But now they do. They've been screamed at, cursed at, cajoled and verbally abused by him. They've seen him angry, terrified, drunk, and frustrated to the point where he wants to hit someone. And somehow, that's made him more likeable.

Starfleet officers. Crazy apparently just went with the territory.

The worst of the crisis is over, and most of their patients drift off to sleep as they dim the lights. The medical staff starts up a rotation, those who managed to sneak off and grab a few hours sleep relieving those who have been up and working for twelve long hours. McCoy takes his break in his office, lying with a blanket and a pillow on the floor, ready to respond in case of emergency.

It's not an emergency that wakes him, though, but rather the quiet thrumming of some kind of stringed musical instrument. The melody is haunting, the notes all tuned perfectly, and he recognizes the quiet voice singing along, though the words are yet again in a language he doesn't understand. Maybe Vulcan again. Maybe Swahili again.

He's not entirely sure he could tell the difference, anyway, and the emotion in the words doesn't need any translation.

He walks quietly toward the corner of the medical bay where Uhura's bed is, checking stats on a few of their more critical patients on the way. He's not surprised to find a handful of people awake, heads turned toward the music, awe and disbelief on their faces.

Neither Spock nor Uhura seem aware of the attention they're garnering. The Vulcan is bent over his instrument, eyes closed, fingers moving with steady, determined motions. Uhura watches him play, her left hand reaching over the side of the bed to rest on his knee. Tenderness and love shines from her face as she continues to sing, words flowing easily off her tongue.

Only when the song's done do Spock's eyes open. "A most unusual rendering of the lyrics, Lieutenant."

"But not unpleasant, Commander?"

McCoy clears his throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own medical bay as Uhura's hand slides slowly down the Vulcan's knee.

"Doctor." Spock turns to look at him, face a mask of perfect, logical calm. "If we are disturbing anyone, I apologize. I will leave immediately."

A chorus of _nos_, _more_ and _encore_ answers the Vulcan's proclamation. Spock's brows draw together, a look a puzzled confusion sweeping over the Vulcan's face that brings a grin to McCoy's lips despite his best efforts.

"Much as your timing leaves a little bit to be desired…" Bones glances sharply at the clock, which reads a beautiful three thirty in the morning. "You seem to be pleasing the audience. One more song for the night. Then everyone sleeps. Perhaps if you ask nicely the musicians will give a repeat performance in the morning."

Spock turns back to Uhura, reaching out gently to touch her hair. "Are you capable of singing another, Nyota?"

"Commander, if you try babying me I will break your hand." The smile on Uhura's face is too filled with joy for the anger in her voice to be real.

And McCoy realizes, after a long moment of staring at Spock as he continues to stroke hair away from Uhura's face, that the Vulcan's smiling, too. It's a subtle expression, and one that seems almost… amused.

Angels and ministers of grace, they're _teasing_ each other.

Bones walks away before anything more awkward can happen. He almost thinks he catches a quiet laugh from the Vulcan, though that could just be the late night and lack of sleep.

He definitely catches the first chords of the new song, and he finds to his shock that it's familiar. Uhura's voice comes in after only a few measures, caressing the English words just as she caressed the alien ones, offering them out to their listeners.

There's trouble behind them. There's probably more trouble ahead.

But listening to Uhura sing, listening to Spock play, Bones has a strange feeling that somehow, against the odds, everything's going to be all right.


End file.
